


None So Blind

by Chrononautical



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Blindness, But also, Fantasy World Hospitalization, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, I cannot stress enough that despite magical healing elves this is a story about grievous harm, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Romance, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-02 13:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 56,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16306439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: After his heroic sacrifice on behalf of the dwarves of Erebor, Bilbo will be well cared for. Naturally, he hates the idea. Crossing half the world, riding barrels, and fighting spiders was supposed to change things. No one should need to carry him anymore. Thorin understands such pride better than most, but he will stop at nothing to have the hobbit safe in his arms.





	1. The Perils of Gold

Bilbo scrambled over the piles of treasure, gold coins slipping under his feet. It was like running through sand. Every step stumbled. Behind him, the dragon came rushing on like a winter storm to cover the world in darkness and smoke. 

Smaug roared thunderously. Diving to the side, the little hobbit just managed to dodge a gout of flame so hot it melted the gold where he’d been standing. At least he was invisible. Smaug’s fire seemed to spew forth with greater ferocity every time, but the dragon could only listen for Bilbo’s footsteps and watch for the shifting of coins. With sudden inspiration and a burst of strength born of pure terror, Bilbo leapt further than he would have dreamed possible, nearly twice his own height, catching the side of a stone staircase and pulling himself up. The treasure could not clink beneath his feet or trip him if he ran on stone. 

Racing up the impossibly large staircase, Bilbo cursed himself for a fool. The dragon’s head swiveled toward him. Perhaps the beast could hear his thundering heartbeat or panting breath. Climbing the stairs trapped him like a fish in a net. He could not leap away into the air. The fall would kill him. As he ran along the great stone bridge, he looked down at mountains of gold, but they held no beauty to his eye. All he could see was the dragon below and the glow of Smaug’s throat as the monster readied its scorching flame to broil a thief. Bilbo blessed his luck to have found his invisibility ring in the goblin tunnels. Without the good fortune of being invisible, the hobbit would have no chance at all to escape the dragon. He thanked all the stars above for the day Gollum lost the magical trinket.

And then the Ring betrayed him. 

Freezing in horror, Bilbo felt it slip from his finger. Plunging after it was reflexive, but he was too late. It bounced once. Then twice. Chiming a sweet, bell-like echo each time it struck the stone walkway. Slowly, it plummeted toward the dragon below just as Smaug grinned victoriously, spouting forth the hottest flame that the greatest of all fire drakes could produce. 

Instinctively, the little hobbit threw himself to an abandoned shield on the walkway. In a half-considered idea, he hoped to hide between metal and stone, protecting his small body from the fire. Unfortunately, though it was very light, the silver-steel shield was larger than Bilbo, and he only managed to roll onto the thing before the whole world exploded. 

This failure saved his life. 

As white hot flames surrounded the stone walkway in an explosion so great that it shook the entire mountain, the concussive force of the blast sent the shield shooting through the air like Earendil’s ship sailing among the stars. Its hobbit passenger baked in the searing heat of the dazzling fire that surrounded him, but he was thrown from the most devastating part of the flames, which melted even the stone bridge. 

After a time, he was able to breath again, forcing air into his scorched, aching lungs as he stared around him at the impossible brightness. Then, overcome by pain, he collapsed and knew no more. 

“I’ve found him,” Balin cried. “He’s here!” 

Bilbo tried to blink his eyes open, but he couldn’t seem to manage. “Balin?” The hobbit’s voice was barely a whisper, and it hurt his poor, seared throat to say even that much.

“Yes! Yes, it is me, lad,” Balin said. “He’s alive! Oh, curse it all that Oin is not here! Water! Clean bandages! Come quickly!” 

“Shhh,” Bilbo tried to lift a hand to quiet his friend, but the pain of moving at all made him cry out. Still, he did his best to warn the dwarf. “Smaug will hear.” 

“No, lad, no he won’t. Smaug the Terrible no longer has ears with which to hear. Know this, Bilbo Dragonslayer. If you go now to the halls of your fathers, you go with a mighty deed to your name. For when the mountain shook with furious thunder, your companions proved true. Down we came to these dark halls to rescue you. Yet we found no living dragon: the beast’s head has been blown clean away and he lies half covered in molten stone, surrounded by a pool of boiling gold. There is no doubt among our number that you did indeed find a live dragon here, and that you slew him in glorious battle, my friend.” 

Bilbo laughed. It was an awful, rattling sound that hurt his chest horribly, and he managed to whisper again. “Dropped my ring. That’s all. Right into his mouth. I think his fire must have broken the magic. We’ll have to ask—” Suddenly the pain seemed far too great to continue speaking, and Bilbo gasped for air, doing his best not to cry out in agony.

“Gandalf will know,” Balin said for him. “Aye, lad. I’m sure he will. We’ll have to ask him when he finally rejoins us.”

Bilbo nodded. Or tried to. Any movement at all was close to impossible, and he wasn’t sure how much he managed. Someone touched him and he screamed as they flayed the skin from his body. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dori chanted. “It will be over soon.”

“Lad,” Balin said, and his voice was so gentle that it hurt more than the burns. “We have to clean your wounds. You’ll die if we don’t.” 

“Okay,” Bilbo managed to croak. “Willing to risk it.” But either they did not hear or they did not understand, for they continued scraping knives across his skin or whatever it was that they were doing. Even as Bilbo screamed for them to just let him die, begged them to stop torturing him, they carried on mercilessly until blissful unconsciousness took him.


	2. Burnt to a Crisp

The hobbit did not stop begging to be killed. For a moment, when they finally managed to cut the charred clothing from his body and ease him into a well scrubbed tub of pure, cool water, it seemed his pain might be less. He stopped shrieking at least, but Thorin soon realized that was only because the little hero had passed into unconsciousness. Bilbo looked like a corpse floating there, his blood slowly coloring the water. The tub was solid gold, edged with pearls from the sea and precious stones. Vaguely, Thorin recalled it from his childhood. Once, the treasure had been in a private bathing chamber attached to a guest room for visiting royalty and other dignitaries. Cursing it for useless, Thorin ordered the others to find linens and a room small enough to sterilize. If Bilbo was losing blood in the bath, he could not stay there. They needed to wrap his burns in clean cloth and staunch the bleeding, but there was no fresh linen in the long abandoned mountain. 

Dwarves made do. Thorin was proud of how quickly Balin was able to mix up a batch of bleach from chemicals left in the forges. Dori was a weaver by trade, and his brothers had lived with him long enough to be able to aid. They found old cloth somewhere. Before Thorin could do more than frown at the dusty, moth-eaten stuff, the brothers had it snow-white and mended into both sheets and bandages. Dwalin and Gloin searched their memories as well as the mountain and found a little guard room near the hoard. Scrubbing it from top to bottom with Balin’s help was the work of half an hour. That left Bifur and Bombur to find a bed, clean it, and make it ready for the soft mattress Dori, Nori, and Ori quickly produced.

While all of this was done, Thorin reserved the most important task for himself. Kneeling at the side of the tub, he kept his hands lightly on the back of the hobbit’s neck, holding Bilbo’s mouth above the water. Counting the burglar’s breaths, Thorin ensured that the little hero’s chest continued to rise and fall. That mattered more than anything else ever could. 

In his long life, Thorin had seen far too many friends die from burns like the ones that now covered the hobbit from head to toe. The king wondered if Bilbo would be more upset by the loss of hair on his head or his once-furry feet. Then he wondered if any of it would grow back. Sometimes thick red scars took the place of hair. Thorin was painfully aware that Bilbo would never again cut the fine little figure of a hobbit who only ever read about suffering in books. If he lived, Thorin would find some way to make it up to him. Somehow.

Bilbo woke when they moved him to the bed. He did not speak. He screamed. Like a dying rabbit. The sound pierced Thorin like a morgul blade—a stab that wounded flesh, bone, heart, and spirit together. The king stood firm. Working together, the dwarves gently wrapped Bilbo in bandages and laid him upon the bed. Though they were careful in their work, it could not have taken more than a quarter of an hour. Yet his screams did not stop. As he lay upon the best bed his friends could offer, Bilbo continued to whimper, cry out, and sob in pain. And there was nothing any of them could do about it. 

Surprisingly, Dwalin broke first. “You should go seek the Arkenstone,” he said. 

Staring at his friend, Thorin wondered if the warrior was mad with grief. “You think of treasure at a time like this?” 

Dwalin met his eyes, and Thorin saw the tell-tale shimmer of tears. “You should all go and search. I will remain here. Alone.” 

Thorin’s sword arced through the air with no conscious thought. Had Dwalin’s own reflexes not been honed by long years of war, the king would have struck his head from his shoulders in an instant. Instead, sword met ax with a clang. “I will not let you harm him!” Thorin cried.

“He is harmed,” Dwalin said, weeping openly, not bothering to keep his ax up. “You know it as well as I do. Be it today or a week from now, these burns will kill him. The only question is how long his pain will last.”

In his heart, Thorin felt the truth of these words. How many dwarves died of lesser wounds as they fled Smaug all those years ago? The number was beyond count. Some had only taken the dragon fire on a shoulder or an unlucky foot. Even they were killed by infection and pain, though a fortunate few merely lost their damaged limbs. Amputation was not an option for Bilbo. Every last inch of the hobbit’s skin was burnt. 

Closing his eyes, Thorin spoke. “While he yet breathes there is hope. As king I command that you leave him the chance.” Opening his eyes, he looked sharply at his company and saw how Bilbo’s pain oppressed them all. “Go now. Find the ravens if they have truly returned to the mountain. Send word to Dain and to my sister that Erebor is reclaimed from the dragon, but guarded by our company alone. Then, do what you can to shore up defenses. It may be that others witnessed the explosion which signaled Smaug’s end, and we cannot forget that Azog is hunting us still. I will tend to the hobbit until Oin comes.” 

The dwarves bowed obediently and left to carry out Thorin’s will. One or two cast lingering looks at Bilbo’s bed, but most hurried away gratefully. Thorin did not blame them. Groaning in agony, Bilbo began to tremble as if chilled, shuddering convulsively. It was likely that Thorin would soon witness his death. At least the others would not have to. 

Death did not come for Bilbo while Thorin maintained his vigil. A few times, Thorin was even able to help the hobbit to drink some water, though he was impotent to offer any other comfort. It seemed many long years passed this way before Oin came. 

Oin’s arrival was like fresh air after a tunnel collapse. He bustled in with his potions and poultices, immediately pouring something down Bilbo’s throat that quieted the hobbit’s screams. Indeed, the draught sent him into peaceful sleep. Then the healer changed Bilbo’s bandages, soothing the raw burns with ointments and salves.

“Can you save him?” Thorin asked when Oin finished his work. For the first time since Smaug’s destruction, Bilbo slept deeply. That alone was a miracle. 

“I cannot even keep him asleep,” Oin admitted unhappily. “Too many doses of poppy syrup and he will never wake. But he might surprise us and save himself. Balin says he has been like this for three days. A man would have died in the first hours. Even most dwarves could not last as long as he has.”

“He is strong.”

“Aye,” Oin agreed. “Hobbits have more iron in them than you notice at first glance.”

“Or perhaps we dwarves do not give credit enough to the toughness of tree roots and blackberry brambles.”

A ghost of a smile passed across the healer’s craggy face. “Perhaps we do not, Oakenshield.”

Thorin was started enough by this reply that his own lips twitched upward in response. 

“When was the last time you ate or slept?”

Thorin’s spine stiffened. 

“Three days, then,” Oin said, needing no confirmation. “I cannot tend him properly if I have to worry about my king as well. Go. Eat a meal. Sleep a little, if you can, but try for at least an hour.”

“Can you promise that he will not die while I am not here?”

“Aye,” Oin said, so steadily that Thorin’s heart leapt joyfully before the healer crushed it. “If he takes a turn, I'll have someone wake you. With burns like these, he won't go quietly.”

Nothing could be said in answer to such a prognosis, so the king obeyed. After eating a few fistfuls of cram, he slept for six hours. The worst part of this chore was that it really did make him feel better. Seeing Kili whole and hale even lifted his devastated heart a little. Before returning to Bilbo’s side, he took a second meal with his sister-sons, though guilt gnawed at him for not rushing back to the hobbit. 

“It was Tauriel,” Kili explained urgently. “The captain of the Mirkwood guards, the one with red hair. She was chasing the orcs and found us instead. She cured me with her elf magic.” 

“We would not be able to track her.” Fili spoke with the air of an often repeated argument. “Her woodcraft is too great. Honestly, after a full day’s head start, I am not even sure we would be able to track the orcs she was chasing.” 

“No,” Thorin agreed. “Your point about the healing art of elves is well made, but I will not waste your time by sending you to bumble alone in the wilderness, searching for an elf maid that might already have gone home.”

Disappointment furrowed Kili’s brow, but Fili did not look pleased to have won the argument. Thorin’s heir looked only tired and sad, as they all were. 

“Search the treasure,” Thorin ordered. 

“The treasure?” his nephews chorused in surprise. 

“The white gems of Lasgalen must be found without delay. Gloin and Balin both know them well and can advise you as to their appearance.” Offering no further explanation, he returned to Bilbo’s sickroom. 

While the hobbit still whimpered and wept with pain and fever, having Oin there was a blessing. Thorin was no longer powerless. Instead, he played nursemaid. Helping Oin change bandages, feed Bilbo potions, apply poultices, and mix medicines sped the hours of waiting. If Bilbo did not get better, he did not seem to get worse either. Every hour that the hobbit lived encouraged Thorin. Every minute gave him greater hope.

There was always hope. After all, a gentlehobbit who preferred chestnuts to weaponry had slain a dragon. If that was not a blessing of fate, Thorin did not know what could be. 

Some time passed before Kili came quietly to Bilbo’s sick room and reported that the necessary gems had been found. “And something else,” he said gravely. So Thorin and Oin followed him out to the treasure hoard. 

Foreboding filled Thorin’s heart. Clearly, something particularly hazardous was uncovered. All the company gathered atop the hoard, solemnly awaiting him. They stood upon the shifting carpet of gold as though it was any other stone. There were better halls in Erebor, more fitting for such a meeting. Arraying here among the treasure was only necessary if the matter was urgent. 

He could see Smaug’s curling tail in the distance, the dragon’s corpse still buried in gold and rubble. Something would have to be done about that soon. The gold of Erebor was cursed by that fell beast. Thorin was not the first to think it. Those searching treasure steeped in such malice could only have found some new danger. Straightening his spine, the king faced this next challenge unflinchingly. “What have you discovered?” 

Stepping forward, Fili dropped to one knee. In his outstretched hands, the lad held the Arkenstone. “Your birthright, my king.” 

The stone was just as he remembered it, large enough to fill his dreams for so many years. Shining with internal light, its every facet was perfectly polished; truly, it was the most beautiful gem ever to exist. Thorin barely heard his heir’s oath of loyalty as he took the stone and held it in both hands. One by one, each member of the company knelt before him, swearing fealty to him as king. Thorin found the words to accept them, for swearing in the light of the Arkenstone was a binding tradition, but his heart remained in the little sick room at his back. 

“I thank you, all of you, for your service,” he said formally. “Dwalin, Fili, ready yourselves for a journey. I would send you with a platoon of guards, but that is not yet within my power. Instead, you must outfit yourselves as best you can with ancestral arms and armor. Take whatever suits your fancy, but mind that you can fight in it.”

“My King,” Balin said slowly, “Our strength to hold the mountain is not great. Even the loss of a single dwarf must change our strategy. If you would send a message, can we not use a raven? Or wait until your cousin Dain comes to support us before so doing?” 

Looking to his oldest advisor, Thorin allowed some part of his immense sorrow to show upon his face. “I do not think it wise to wait, my friend. Outfit yourselves,” he ordered, then turned quickly back to Bilbo’s sickroom. 

Oin did not follow, and so Thorin knew that the company remained to whisper behind his back. That did not matter. What he needed to do next did not require witnesses. 

Setting the Arkenstone upon the hobbit’s chest made the little fellow shriek in pain, so Thorin quickly moved it to the pillow beside Bilbo’s head. Hopefully that would be close enough for any virtue the stone possessed to pass to the hero. Kneeling at the bedside, Thorin Oakenshield prayed in Khuzdul, the sacred language of his people. He prayed as he had not done since the Mountain was lost the first time, when so many dwarves were killed by burns just like Bilbo’s. 

“Lord Mahal, you crafted the Fathers of the Dwarves from stone. I believe that it is within your power to repair us as a mason might heal a cracked statue. Accept my offering, I beg you. Take for yourself the Arkenstone, the most perfect of all jewels within my kingdom, and salve the wounds of the hero who saved it for your people. Please.” 

Nothing happened. The Arkenstone glowed, and Bilbo whimpered, and nothing happened.

“Of course one jewel alone is not enough. I insult you by attempting to buy the work of your hands with so little, great lord. I do not mean to offer the Arkenstone only as itself, but as a representation for the vast treasure hoard of Thror, my grandfather. A whole mountain full of gold and gemstones shaped by generations of your people. Will you not take all of it in exchange for one life? Only save Bilbo, and take the treasure as your fee. Not a single member of our company will quibble over price, for all of us value his life above all things.”

Still Thorin’s prayer was not answered, and he felt hot tears spill down his cheeks. 

“My life, then!” he cried. “My life for his! Full well did I know what retaking this mountain might cost. I was ready to die for it. I am ready to die for it! Only do not make him pay such a price. Do not make him pay for my dreams of glory when all he ever wanted was to see me safely home. Please. Please. Please.” 

But the mighty Valar made no response, and Thorin was left alone to weep.

When Oin returned, Thorin rose from his knees. The old healer did not ask for explanations. The last time he’d treated burns like Bilbo’s there had been no beds, and loved ones had been forced to kneel in the dirt around filthy campsites, but that did not mean he failed to recognize the posture. 

“Stay with him,” Thorin ordered. If his voice was hoarse and full of gravel, the half-deaf healer was unlikely to notice. 

“Don’t think he’s up to playing, just now,” the elderly dwarf said, holding his horn to his ear. 

Thorin looked at him and did not laugh.

“Aye,” Oin said seriously. “I’ll not leave his side.”

Nodding once, the king left the sickroom to do what was necessary. The moment he stepped out into the treasury, Kili came rushing over. Clearly the young dwarf was ready to interrupt Bilbo’s rest with his news. That he did not have to was the first piece of good luck since Oin’s arrival. 

“An army approaches!” 

Thorin felt a furious satisfaction settle in his gut. It would be good to kill something foul. An unlucky thirteen defenders might yet prove inauspicious for those who attacked. Erebor was a fortress, and could hold against a siege for a long time. Those who came would pay for the affront with many lives. “Azog.” 

“Nay!” Kili’s face twisted. “We cannot be certain, but it looks like men from Laketown. Their numbers are small, only a few hundred. If they were alone, we could hold against them easily. For they are mostly fishermen with boat hooks, the sort Bard tried to offer us in lieu of swords.”

“But they are not alone?” Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“They are not. The elves of Mirkwood march alongside them. Ravens count their strength to be at least ten thousand.”

The satisfaction soured in Thorin’s belly and molten iron flared within his chest. He took a deep breath. “Then I must dress to greet our guests.” 

By the time the armies reached the makeshift gate, Thorin wore full plate mail, shining like gold, and the Raven Crown perched upon his brow. All the dwarves of his company arrayed beside him behind their hastily constructed parapet, outfitted in the finest dwarven armor to be found. 

Far below, he saw the elven army stop as one, regimented in perfect lines, unmoving as the pines, awaiting the word of their king. They carpeted his doorstep in numbers like to autumn leaves, their golden helms and shields shaped to put one in mind of a forest, but there the similarity ended. Nothing about them evinced the disorder of natural things. Next to them, the men from Laketown looked shabby indeed. No armor shone among their ranks. If they had any, it was only leather. A few bore hunting bows, but as Kili said, mostly they carried only boat hooks and similarly improvised weaponry. They were the scattered acorns, looking cracked and broken beside the orderly elven trees. 

Three riders come forward. Bard he recognized at once. The smuggler who once aided their company at great risk to himself rode upon the back of a handsome brown mare. Thranduil was beside him, riding a great elk with his usual ostentation, but Thorin did not spit. Nor did he offer acknowledgement to the third rider, who was only an old man in gray rags astride a dappled stallion. 

Bard spoke first. “Hail Thorin, King Under the Mountain! We heard the explosion from across the water and feared that Smaug yet lived. It is good to see you well.” 

“Bard, descendant of Girion, Lord of Dale, wise were the words of caution which you spoke to me in Esgaroth. Indeed, the dragon was alive when we arrived. Yet we are in no danger now. The explosion you witnessed was that vile worm’s demise.” 

Honest relief shone in the bargeman’s eyes, and he smiled easily up at Thorin. “Glad tidings are these, O King. When we thought the beast might have awoken, we rode out to face him rather than await his anger in our homes. You give us a great gift in removing his danger from our doorstep.” 

Thorin judged the truth in these words, and he nodded once to Bofur. The tinker quickly cut a single rope, and at the base of the mountain a canvas fell away, revealing twelve great works of gold crafted at the height of Erebor’s wealth and skill. 

“The bells of Dale.” Bard gasped. The towering bells were huge and heavy, each one as large as three men. By weight, it was enough gold to buy the whole of Laketown seven times over, but their worth was not in their weight. Clearly, Bard knew that.

“Smaug’s murders were only one of his many crimes,” Thorin said. “The despoiler stole much from your people when he robbed the dwarves of our homeland. Take these now with my promise that anything of Dale found within the treasure horde will be returned to you.”

The men who marched with him gave a great cheer, but Bard said nothing, staring at the bells in silence. 

Thorin continued. “If you choose to settle again at the base of my mountain, Lord Bard of Dale will have the full support of Erebor to rebuild. For when we were lost and unwanted, you gave us aid, though it might have cost you dearly. When all others turned them aside, you gave my nephews medicine, shelter, and care. A dwarf does not forget his debts. I know what I owe to you, Bard. Be a bargeman no longer! Let us work together to rebuild all that was lost.” 

“We will,” Bard said, finding his voice. When his eyes looked up at Thorin once more, they shone with a ferocity like dragonfire. “What was lost can be rebuilt. The future can be greater than the past.” 

The cheers of the Men were deafening, full of hope and promise. Thorin knew that they were with him now, and would not attack even if Thranduil did. Though matters were yet too tenuous to rely on their aid in fighting the elves if there was a battle. Hopefully, such a time would not come. Despite the sanctimonious way the elven king clapped along, lightly tapping his hands together with a sneer, Thorin could not afford to antagonize him. 

“Yes, well done,” he said snidely. “For a pittance the King Under the Mountain buys off the army at his gate. A bargain, I would call it. Have you a gift for me as well, to assuage my displeasure that you did not die in flames?” 

“Perhaps, King Thranduil, my words when last we spoke were less diplomatic than they might have been,” Thorin said, nearly choking on the admission. 

Smiling like a snake, the elf tilted his head to one side. “I am quite willing to entertain a material apology. Indeed, if the price is right, we might even go in peace. A few gems in exchange for the help my people gave to you in the Greenwood.” 

“What help?” Thorin shouted. “What help have your people ever given to mine? What debt could I possibly owe to you? No, Thranduil, I owe you no debts and you will get no gifts from me! The gems of Lasgalen will not be handed over, except as fair payment.”

“Payment?” Thranduil hissed. “Do you imagine I will give gold for my own property when I know there are only thirteen dwarves between my army and my belongings?” 

“Nevertheless, I will not hand them over freely,” Thorin said firmly, just barely bridling his temper. “One of our company faced Smaug in single combat. Though he slew the dragon, he was badly burned. He lives, but he suffers. The gems of Lasgalen I will give in exchange for his salvation. For my own healer says that such a thing is beyond his art.” 

Far below, at Thranduil’s side, the old man dressed in gray spoke. “Who was it?” he asked softly. 

Finally, Thorin turned to acknowledge Gandalf, for of course that is who the gray rider was. “One who had no business throwing his lot in with dwarves or facing dragons! One who would never have known fire beyond his own hearth and the lamplight used to read his books without your interference old man. Do not think I will forget that this is your fault! Did I not say I would not be responsible for his fate?” Tears pricked at the corners of Thorin’s eyes, but he once again mastered himself. Emotions had no place in a negotiation. 

“Bilbo.” The wizard bowed his head for a brief moment, as though overcome by grief. Then he turned quickly to Thranduil. “Your majesty, I beg you, send a healer as Thorin requests. Mister Baggins is not a dwarf, but a hobbit. A halfling. He is no enemy of the Greenwood. Indeed, Elrond Half-Elven declared him an elf friend in Rivendell for his manners and learning. Please, show mercy.”

“We do not ask for charity or kindness,” Thorin said quickly. How well he knew that neither was in Thranduil’s heart! How many dwarves died of burns less severe than Bilbo’s while the healers of Mirkwood sat idly by? But it would be different this time. It had to be different. “I can pay this time. The gems of Lasgalen for the life of a single hobbit. Surely it is a fair price.” 

Thranduil’s face changed, but Thorin could not read the elf’s remote expression. Still, he knew well enough that the king was weighing his options. In response, he felt his own face twist with wrath.

“If you try to buy them with blood, you will pay dearly, I promise you. Every dwarf in this mountain will sell his life for Bilbo’s revenge, and you will lose more than you can possibly imagine.”

“Peace.” Thranduil held up a single hand. “I will make this bargain, Thorin Oakenshield. Though your pride may yet refuse it. The elf on this field most familiar with dragon fire and most skilled at healing such burns is me. So I myself will see to your wounded companion, if you will welcome me into your mountain.” 

From the utter relief on Gandalf’s face, Thorin judged this to be the truth. He did not want to owe Thranduil any kind of debt, but the gems of Lasgalen meant there was no risk of that. It did not matter who came to heal Bilbo, so long as it was the elf most suited to the task. “Be welcome then, King Thranduil. Erebor is open to you.” 

Yet Thorin did not stay upon the wall to help Balin find a dignified way to allow a king entry into the mountain without destroying their defenses completely. Instead, he drew his sister’s sons aside. 

“This is good,” Kili said, his eyes shining with hope. “If Tauriel could heal me, surely the King of the Elves can save Bilbo.” 

“Or he will betray us,” Thorin said darkly. It was always a possibility when dealing with Thranduil. “The two of you must split the gems of Lasgalen evenly between you. Fili take the jewelry, and Kili, you take the unset stones. If Thranduil proves false you must flee the mountain and stay well away from the fighting. Go in separate directions, one to Dain in the Iron Hills and one back to the Blue Mountains and your mother.”

“We will not run from a fight!” Fili looked offended. This was a natural sentiment for one of Durin’s folk when faced with such a cowardly proposition, but Thorin needed more strategic thinking from his heir.

“You will retreat from a battle to win a war,” Thorin commanded. “Thranduil thinks all that he desires will come to him in time. That the jewels will be his if he simply outlasts those who would keep them from him. Should he prove true and save Bilbo, then perhaps his arrogance is only pride.”

“But if he proves false, he will never get them,” Fili said. The young dwarf straightened his back, standing firm as stone itself. 

“Then you understand what I ask of you. If I fall here and the elves of Mirkwood ransack Erebor, they will get none of the gems they most desire with their pillaging. Both of you must teach your heirs to guard the gems and keep them from Thranduil at all costs. No matter what the future holds, nor what lies he whispers. If the elf betrays Erebor a second time, he must never have a third chance to grasp his desire.”

Fili nodded. “From our children to our children’s children and even unto the breaking of the world,” he swore. “If Bilbo Baggins dies, Thranduil will not touch the gems of Lasgalen while the line of Durin survives.” 

“If he proves false,” Kili agreed, though there was a hesitation in his face that broke Thorin’s heart. 

Placing a gentle hand on Kili’s neck, Thorin pressed his forehead against his nephew’s. “No one hopes more than I that this precaution is unnecessary. But go now with your brother and prepare.” 

As the young dwarves rushed away, Thorin turned back to the gate to greet his guest. Gandalf entered with the elven king, but ignoring the wizard was easy enough. If he did not meet the old man’s eyes, he would not have to acknowledge who was really at fault for letting Bilbo face a dragon alone. 

Fortunately, Thranduil had no more desire to suffer proforma niceties than Thorin did. The elf allowed the dwarves to usher him quickly to Bilbo’s sickroom, only lithely craning his serpentine neck a little to view the vast treasure hoard and the headless body of the dragon as they passed. Upon viewing the bandaged, groaning hobbit, Thranduil sniffed once.

“I suppose this is the best you could do under the circumstances,” he said disparagingly. Then his eyes fell upon the Arkenstone where it rested still on Bilbo’s bleach-white pillow. Cocking an eyebrow at Thorin, he continued. “I see that I am not the first you tried to barter help from. Lord Aüle did not answer you?” 

“Do not waste time with pointless questions!” Thorin snatched up the symbol of his kingship and pocketed it furiously. “Have you come only to mock us, or can you help him?”

“I suppose that since I am here, I might as well help him,” Thranduil said. Before these lazy words could fully incense Thorin, they were belied by swift action. 

First, the elf examined Bilbo’s bandages with light fingers that did not make the hobbit scream as Oin’s hands always did. Taking a crystal vial from somewhere under his armor, the king fed a strange potion to the hobbit. Then he cast herbs into the golden tub, which made the water within boil. Sweet smelling steam filled the room as Thranduil began to salve Bilbo’s many burns. This might have been mummery, but as the elf worked, he chanted in a strange language. Though Thorin knew some elvish from the short, peaceful years of his childhood, he did not recognize the words. Even so he felt a power grow as the elf spoke. 

Thranduil of the Greenwood began to glow with a white light, like the moon of Durin’s Day shining upon the secret door to Thorin’s ambition. The voice of the elf rose and fell, as though in recitation of some poetry, until suddenly it was no longer a formulaic song. Blazing like a star to outshine the sun, Thranduil was not an elf, but a king. Thorin did not need to understand the words to hear the forceful undercurrent of command. When Thranduil spoke it was an order, not a prayer. It seemed that the Valar, or perhaps simply Bilbo’s little body, listened and obeyed. 

Slowly, so very slowly, the bandages fell away from the hobbit’s wounds like the red leaves of autumn and Thorin saw soft, pink skin underneath. It looked like the untouched flesh of a newborn babe, but it was not burned, bleeding, or scarred. For the first time since the beginning of this impossible quest, hope no longer felt like a desperate dream. Thranduil was healing Bilbo, and Thorin stood by in awe as the terrible burns smoothed over with the power of the elven king’s magic. 

At last, Thranduil stepped back. His ageless face looked weary for a moment and he sighed. “That is all I can do,” he said quietly. “Though I flatter myself that even Elrond of Rivendell would have been hard pressed to do as much.” 

“Will he live?” Thorin’s hand reached out toward the fresh, clean skin of Bilbo’s cheek, but he did not touch it. “Is he healed?”

Thranduil blinked, as though surprised to find Thorin still in the room. Indeed, now that it was over, Thorin could acknowledge that the working had been long. Perhaps a day passed while Thranduil chanted. Perhaps two or three. 

“I have healed him as well as any in Middle Earth could do,” the elf said, “but the light has gone from his eyes. It will not return.” 

Fear swelled in Thorin’s throat and he choked. “What does that mean? He will not wake? That cannot be called healing! You have only worked some elvish illusion to make me think that you have helped him!”

“Peace.” Thranduil raised a tired hand. Thorin had never seen an elf appear so wholly exhausted. “He will wake. Indeed, I am surprised he has not done so already with your shouting.”

“Then tell me what you mean,” Thorin whispered urgently. “Elves may speak riddles about light, but if he is yet hurt, I would have you tell me plainly.” 

“He is yet hurt,” Thranduil said calmly. “His body will be weak from the healing for many days. If he were a Man I would say two seasons, but I recall that halflings are a hardy folk. Some part of his strength may return before midwinter, at least enough to rise from his bed and tend his own needs.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, Thorin felt tremendously weak himself. All of the anxious anticipation that wound the dwarf’s muscles tighter than a spring snapped away, and the king nearly collapsed with relief. “That is well. Thank you. Of course that is well enough. I would not expect you to magic him up and about like a puppet. It is natural that he should need to rest and recover.”

“I tell you he is yet hurt,” Thranduil said. If the elf were any other, Thorin would have sworn there was compassion in his voice. “His body needs only rest, warmth, and good food to recover. His eyes, however, cannot be healed.” 

“His eyes?”

“Are beyond the healing art of elves or men. Too look upon such brilliance as the explosion he witnessed is impossible for mortals. His capacity for sight burned entirely away. There is nothing left to heal.” 

For a moment, the words did not seem to make sense. Then the scope of what had been lost crashed around Thorin. 

Perhaps Bilbo would not mind overmuch. He would yet have music, ale, and good food, which he seemed to like best of all things. They could teach the hobbit runes! Many dwarves had cause to read in absolute darkness, at the bottom of a mineshaft or in the black of night. Runes were a practical way to do it, and could be read easily by touch. Bilbo need not lose the books he enjoyed. 

Only the color of the flowers that he plucked happily as they walked, the joyful sparks that leapt from a campfire which the hobbit always followed with his gaze, and the vision of a sunset over a mountain range that transfixed him for long minutes. That was all that he would lose. How many times had the little fellow hinted to a smirking Gandalf that when Erebor was reclaimed the wizard should celebrate with a firework show? It would never happen now. No, Thorin’s cause was responsible for crippling Bilbo, and dooming the hobbit to a life without the natural beauty he seemed to prize. 

“Would that you could pluck the eyes from my skull and give them to him,” Thorin muttered. 

“Such a thing is not possible.” 

Thorin hated the pity in Thranduil’s face. Of course it was not possible. The elf need not condescend. Could a dwarf not make a simple wish without elvish judgment falling upon him? 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said weakly. At once, the king rushed to his side. All anger with Thranduil was forgotten as Thorin took the hobbit’s hand without making the little fellow shriek in pain. 

“Here I am.”

“Thorin, you must do something for me.” The hobbit’s voice was pitiful, a reedy note barely piercing the heavy air of the sickroom. 

“Anything,” the king swore.

“Thorin, I need—please—a kipper.” 

Thorin blinked at the hobbit in surprise. 

“Or perhaps,” Bilbo amended with a pathetic cough, “a bacon sandwich. Scones, maybe. Tea. With milk, if there is any to be had. Though porridge would do in a pinch.” 

Laughing, Thorin rushed to the door and threw it open. “Bring food,” he ordered. “The hobbit must have his meals, or he will pester like a buzzing fly.” 

“It is not a laughing matter,” Bilbo said fussily, looking just as he always did when dwarvish mannerisms offended him. “You have been starving me! I feel like I have not eaten in a month.”

“It has barely been a week.” Thorin felt a grin stretch wide across his face.

Huffing, Bilbo turned his face to Thranduil. Thorin noticed that the hobbit’s eyes were unfocused and angled slightly left of where the elf stood, but the little fellow’s intent was obvious. “Allow me to thank Your Gracious Majesty for healing my wounds and saving my life. It speaks to a greatness of character that you came to my aid when you and Thorin have your differences. I shall never forget it.”

Thranduil inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement and might have made some pretty, elvish answer had Thorin not snorted. 

“You needn’t thank him,” the dwarf said gruffly. “I am paying him well enough.”

The hobbit looked truly shocked. “Thorin! You cannot be serious. One ought to be twice as polite to people in one’s employ!” It was exactly the way Bilbo would have scolded the king had he been rude to a gardener or a serving maid, and Thorin laughed once more to think of King Thranduil of Mirkwood as Bilbo Baggins’s social inferior. He felt suddenly that as long as Bilbo lived, he would spend the rest of his days laughing. 

“I am corrected.” Thorin quickly pressed his forehead to Bilbo’s, though the little fellow jerked in surprise at the unexpected touch. Bowing deeply to Thranduil, the king of Erebor offered his gratitude. “Thank you, King Thranduil. For saving my burglar.”

To Thorin’s surprise, the sentiment came out more sincerely than he intended. In fact, Thranduil did not appear insulted at all. The elven king simply nodded. Though his face was ageless and beautiful as elven faces always were, his eyes seemed very old. 

“It pleases me that you did not perish in the fire before we had a chance to speak, Bilbo Baggins. When next you come to the Greenwood, you shall be an honored guest. In fact, I would have you tell me how it was that the thirteen dwarves you travelled with vanished from my dungeons. For my heart advises me that it will not be your first visit to my halls, though you and I have never met before now.” 

Laughing, Bilbo agreed. “It is quite a story, Your Majesty. I should be very pleased to find an appreciative audience!” 

With that, Thranduil took his leave and Bombur came into the sickroom. A grin plumped the cook’s chubby cheeks like two ripe apples, and he carried a tray laden with food for the hero. For a time, Thorin was able to sit and watch the little hobbit eat to his heart’s content, but only for a time. The duties of a king could not be neglected long.


	3. Breakfast for One

Bilbo felt a bit guilty for pretending to be asleep, but he needed a moment to gather himself. The elven king’s voice echoed in his ears. Which made no sense, because the Company should be in the Lonely Mountain, after leaving Mirkwood far behind. Yet he heard Thranduil say that the light was gone from his eyes. At once, the bookish hobbit knew what the king meant. The phrase was not at all uncommon in elvish poetic histories, and it was not nearly as obfuscating as similar colloquialisms. Also, there was the little fact that Bilbo couldn’t see anything through squinted eyelids, despite being perfectly awake. 

He was blind. Moreover, elvish medicine could not heal him. So he would continue to be blind for the rest of his life. 

Incidentally, he no longer felt as though he was being skinned alive. That was an improvement. But he would never again see the sunshine on the daisies, nor the warmth of Thorin’s smile, nor thousands of butterflies taking wing from the tops of the oak trees like a breath of fresh air in Mirkwood. Worse, he would never again be of use to his friends. Cutting through spider webs, fighting orcs, and rescuing dwarves from dungeons was out of the question if he could not see anything. Some part of Bilbo had not expected to live past the dragon at the end of his journey. Now that he was faced with the prospect of once again being nothing more than an unwanted burden to the dwarves, he wished he had not. Dreary as these thoughts were, they filled his mind. As he could see nothing at all, he could see no hope in his situation.

In truth, he felt rather sorry for himself. He might have gone on feeling sorry for himself, and ignoring the other people in the room, if he did not sense Thorin spoiling for a fight. 

“Would you could pluck the eyes from my skull and give them to him,” Thorin said softly, which was very noble of him and much in keeping with the leader Bilbo knew. It was quite natural, too, that Thorin became wholly enraged by Thranduil’s sensible answer to this dramatic proposition. However, Bilbo didn’t think anyone would come away happy if the two kings started fighting in earnest.

So the hobbit played for sympathy, just as he used to when he was home sick with his mother. Nothing salved a caretaker’s worries like the suspicion that their charge was only faking his pains for coddling and a bit of extra bacon. Indeed, Thorin laughed happily when Bilbo made his demands, and quite forgot to pick a fight with Thranduil. 

As a side benefit, Bilbo got a very nice breakfast, delivered promptly by Bombur. There were bacon sandwiches after all. That was most welcome. Navigating his plate was rather tricky without being able to see, but it was excellently full. It seemed that he no sooner finished one sandwich than he found another right next to it. Unfortunately, the magically replenishing properties of his breakfast tray were not entirely beneficial. After polishing off a lovely soft boiled egg, Bilbo knocked over his teacup. Though he had been quite sure it was empty, warm tea spilled all over his lap. 

“Sorry Bilbo.” Bofur apologized quickly, although Bilbo hadn’t even realized he was in the room. The cup, tray, and breakfast were all whisked away, while someone dabbed Bilbo with some sort of towel to sop up the mess. “I should have warned you when I refilled your cup. Moved it too. Stupid of me.” The usually jovial dwarf sounded deeply upset.

“My fault entirely,” the hobbit said, smiling in the direction of his friend’s voice. “Wasn’t watching where I put my hands, was I?” The weak little joke earned him a joyful laugh from Bofur, a low chortle from Bombur, and a third chuckle from someone else he hadn’t known was in the room. It certainly wasn’t Thorin or Thranduil, both of whom had gone out. “Gandalf, is that you?” 

“Indeed it is, Bilbo Baggins. And I am very glad to find you in such good spirits.”

“Well, why shouldn’t I be? Perhaps I did get in a fight, but I hear that the other fellow came out worse.” 

At that Bofur and Bombur broke into gales of laughter. In the strange darkness of Bilbo’s new world, they sounded slightly hysterical. But maybe it was only a better joke than he thought. 

“I have seen the evidence of your victory,” Gandalf said jovially. “The draconic scourge of a great kingdom laid low by a hobbit. I assure you, I never expected such an outcome when I invited you along on this little excursion.”

“Yes, well, I do not think any of us could have expected events to unfold as they did.” Bilbo meant to be lighthearted, but the words came out in a melancholy way. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I am only a bit tired.” 

“Of course you are,” Bofur cried. “Oin and the elf both said you would need a great deal of rest. We will leave you alone to sleep.” 

Bilbo heard shuffling and rushing as his friends hurried away. Though this was entirely to be expected, it was not at all what the little hobbit wanted. Before he could think better of it, he called out for Gandalf. 

“Yes, Bilbo?” 

“Could you stay a moment? I wouldn’t mind a private word, if it isn’t too much trouble.” 

“For the hero of the hour? I think I can find the time.” 

Bilbo heard a door close. Bofur and Bombur did not even say goodbye. 

“There now,” the wizard said. “We are quite alone. You may ask me whatever you wish.” He did not sound pleased by this prospect, but Bilbo was undeterred. While the favor he wished to ask was a great one, he rather felt Gandalf owed it to him. 

“If it is not terribly out of your way, I should like you to see me home,” Bilbo said. “Under the current circumstances, I think I might get lost if I tried to go alone.” 

“Well,” Gandalf said after a short pause, “that is not at all what I thought you would ask me, but of course I will see you back to the Shire, my friend. As soon as you are ready to go. I quite understand if you have had your fill of adventure.” 

“Excellent!” In truth the little hobbit did not feel as enthusiastic about the prospect as he pretended, but it was for the best. “I am ready to go right now, if a sturdy pony can be found to carry me.” 

There was another, longer pause. Then Gandalf said, “Bilbo Baggins, if you can stand up on your own and walk ten steps unaided, I shall procure for you the swiftest steed in all of Middle Earth.”

It seemed harsh for the wizard to set conditions upon a favor, but it was a simple enough request. Bilbo scooted to the edge of his bed to rise, but before he could so much as swing his feet over the side, he collapsed backward. Trying to sit up again, he felt strangely weak, and his hands slid wildly across his linens. Then his right hand encountered a pillow. Atop it was another pillow. Indeed, though the hobbit could not see them, there seemed to be quite a large pile of pillows at the head of his bed. 

“Oh,” he said softly. “I was not even sitting up on my own.”

“No,” Gandalf said. “Bifur put them there when it became clear that you would like to sit up to eat.”

“Bifur? I didn't even know he was in the room!” 

“Nevertheless, he came to see you and was eager to do what he could to help. Now, I am not a dwarf to dexterously assist in such a quick, unnoticed way. May I help you sit up again?” 

Bilbo reluctantly agreed, for his own muscles did not seem at all equal to the task. Gently, Gandalf shifted the little hobbit so that he was once again sitting up with his back to the pile of pillows. “Thank you,” he said softly. “It is very kind of you to help me.” 

“You are most certainly welcome to any aid that I can give, dear fellow,” the old wizard said. “But tell me why you feel such a rush to return to the Shire. Is it only that you are frightened by what has happened? Surely you see that it is safer to convalesce here in Erebor than on the road.” 

“Ah.” Bilbo’s throat swelled with emotion and he said nothing at all for many long minutes. Finally, he broke the silence in a roundabout way. “Do you know Blinky Boffin?”

“I cannot say that I have the pleasure of that hobbit’s acquaintance, no. Though naturally, I am familiar with the family.” If Gandalf’s patience was tried by Bilbo’s strange question, it did not come across in his voice. 

“Blinky is not the name his mother gave him, of course,” Bilbo said. “I am ashamed to admit it, but I do not know the fellow’s proper name at all, though he is a third cousin of mine on my father’s side. Keeps a house in Hobbiton and sells lace sometimes at the Free Fair. It is very good lace, but he does not make much from it. You see, everyone short changes him. Something of a neighborhood game, in fact. It happens when he goes to market to buy, as well.”

“I see.” Gandalf’s tone was heavy with disapproval. 

“I have never once done so,” Bilbo said quickly. “He was born blind, and has done nothing to deserve such hardships. I bring him a pie now and again, or a sack of potatoes. He asks me in for tea, but of course I do not accept. I would never wish to inconvenience him.” 

“It sounds to me like you have been kind to him.” Gandalf spoke slowly, but he no longer sounded like a judge weighing evidence. “In my experience, Shire Folk take very good care of their neighbors. Are you worried that the dwarves of Erebor will be less kind to the hero who slayed a dragon?” 

“Not at all,” Bilbo said bitterly. “I am quite certain that they will be very kind indeed, but I shall be better able to bear such kindness from my relations.” 

“Would you rather they were cruel?” 

Bilbo huffed and did not speak for a long while. Finally, when he was quite certain that he would not cry, he said, “I am very grateful to you, you know.”

This was met with silence. Bilbo could not see the wizard’s expression, but he guessed perhaps there was some skepticism written there. Still, he meant it honestly. 

“I have many relations and acquaintances at home, you know, and I have never wanted for company. Indeed, I wish for a little peace and quiet far more often. But it is very different, traveling with the dwarves. I feel very differently about them. For they are so crude, and mannerless, and single-minded, and funny, and loyal, and brave, and.” 

Just as Bilbo felt he could not explain anything further, Gandalf quietly helped him. “They are your friends,” the wizard said.

“Yes. Well. Exactly. It is not so much that I do not want to be a burden to them, for I know they will welcome taking care of me as a way to repay me for accidentally killing Smaug. Only. Only, I should like to go away. While we are still friends. Because I could not bear it if any of them did not stay to tea for fear of inconveniencing me.”

The little fellow was quite convinced that he had done a terrible job of explaining his feelings. Indeed, Gandalf did not say anything at all in reply. After a moment, Bilbo heard the creak of a wooden chair, and he thought that was probably it. Gandalf would not even listen any longer. Trying to convince himself that being coddled by dwarves for a month or two would not be wholly terrible was pointless. Eventually, Bilbo managed to console himself somewhat with the thought that he should never have to see an insincere smile from any of them. It was a small enough comfort, but he had nothing else. 

It did not fail to occur to him that things would have been far simpler if Smaug had managed to kill him. 

“Bilbo Baggins,” the wizard said at last, “Are you, of all people, suggesting that the dwarves of this company will be too polite to you?” 

Surprised, Bilbo paused, contemplating this new perspective.

“Do you imagine,” Gandalf continued, the amusement in his voice very obvious, “that Dwalin will hesitate to give you his honest opinion merely because you are blind?” 

“Oh. Well.”

“Or perhaps that Bombur will stint himself if you have him to supper once you are well, so as not to tax your hospitality?” 

Bilbo laughed. Bombur’s appetite was eminently respectable, and among the dwarves he was the most likely to enjoy regular meals as opposed to the feast or famine attitude that the rest took. 

“I suppose Bofur shall curb his tongue from this day forward, and never say anything impolitic in your presence again.” 

Abruptly, Bilbo stopped laughing. “But he did. At least, he did not mock me for spilling my tea, which I am sure he would have done on any other day.” 

“Oh, Bilbo. Allow them a little time. Allow yourself a little time. Change is never easy for anyone, and the dwarves are ashamed that you faced the dragon alone. Have faith! Your friendship carried you across the Misty Mountains and through the dark of Mirkwood, it is strong enough to endure even this.” 

This was not at all what the hobbit wanted to hear. It would have been far more comforting if Gandalf told him that the dwarves would continue to act exactly as they always did. Unfortunately, that was not true, and the wizard was not given to telling lies. 

A warm, craggy hand closed on Bilbo’s shoulder. “It is a hard road before you, full of many trials. Your friends will ease the burden, though, if it is in our power.” 

Bilbo nodded, and eventually the wizard released him. When the hobbit heard a chair creak and footsteps heading toward the door, he called Gandalf back one final time. “What did you think I would ask?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You did not think I would ask you to see me home. What did you think I would ask?”

“Ah. You know, I don’t recall.”

“Gandalf.” 

“Well, Bilbo, I thought you would ask if my own skill in the art of healing might somehow surpass Thranduil’s. It does not.” 

Snorting, Bilbo waved a hand. “Of course it doesn’t. Your magic is all flash bangs and fireworks. Useful enough for fighting goblins, and very pretty at a party, I grant you. But we have travelled too far together for me to suspect you of miracles.” 

Gandalf laughed, sounding delighted. “Yet miracles I have seen, Bilbo Baggins, and from the hand of a hobbit, no less. Slaying dragons and surviving! You certainly shall have stories to tell for years to come.”

“Exhausting stuff, miracles.” Bilbo sniffed. “I think I would rather have a nap, just now.”

“Then I will leave you to it,” the wizard said. And so he did.


	4. Alliances

Thranduil was an oathbreaker and a coward, but, having met Thorin’s demands, he deserved to be paid. Calling on his nephews, Thorin offered the two chests to Thranduil with what words of civility he could muster. Long did the elf gaze upon the jewels, taking the finest necklace in his hands and watching it shimmer in the light of the setting sun. Eventually, a second elf came up to the battlements, bearing away the chests, though Thranduil did not release his hold on the necklace. 

“You have given me all of them.” 

It was not a question, but Thorin bristled. “I keep my bargains.” 

Thranduil inclined his head slightly. “I mean no offense,” he said, still not leaving. “I find you are not what I expected, King Under the Mountain. When you were in my dungeon, I thought you would prefer to burn yourself alive rather than speak a single civil word to me.” 

“Perhaps that is so, for my own sake,” Thorin admitted. “Unfortunately, a king does not have the luxury of being ruled by his feelings. Though perhaps an elvish king may feel differently.” 

Thranduil snorted. “And so dwarvish civility comes to an end.”

“What more would you have of me?” Thorin demanded. “I have thanked you. I have paid you. Would you have me abase myself to gratify your pride? Very well! You have done what no dwarf could do. Indeed, the First People have some cause for their vanity. Your gifts of healing vastly outmatch those given to my folk, though your long lives mean you have less need of them. Go! Go and live untouched by mortal grief, safe in the knowledge that you will never need to beg me for such aid.” 

Unmoved as any marble statue, Thranduil did not go. “I would have peace.” 

“What?” 

“You ask what I would have of you, and it is this: peace.” 

“Then go in peace. You cannot think I would be foolish enough to fight your army with a force of thirteen dwarves while Bilbo lies in bed as weak as a newborn kitten.” 

The hint of a smile twitched at the corner of the elven king’s mouth. “No, you will never again risk harm to Master Baggins.” 

Cold iron settled in Thorin’s heart. “Is that a threat?”

“It is a fact. Our war will not start today. It will not start for another ten years at least. Erebor needs time to rebuild its strength. But there is war for us on the horizon, Thorin son of Thrain. You hate me too much for anything less.” 

“I do not hate you.” It was a surprise to realize it, but Thorin’s heart was too full of Bilbo’s plaintive request for breakfast. He had no room in it for hate. 

“Today you do not, for I have done you a service. But as you say, I have been well paid. Tomorrow or the day after, you will rediscover your hate. You owe me no debt.”

“What then? Speak plainly. Will you kill me now to avoid this future you claim to see? You are welcome to try, though you will not find me as starved or exhausted as you did at our last meeting. Ware that you are in my stronghold, surrounded by my people this time!” 

The elf did not blink. “Even now you distrust me. Even today, when you do not hate.” 

“You are not speaking as one worthy of trust would!” 

“You were so young when the dragon came. Younger even than your nephew whose beard only hints at growing, I think,” Thranduil said. 

Thorin did not answer. If the elf would threaten Kili, there was no need to tell him that Thorin had, indeed, been nearly five years younger than his nephew was now.

“I must have seemed a miracle to your eye that day. Appearing as I did out of the ruins and the dragon-smoke, high on the hillside with a host of elves armed and armored for war. How well I recall the hope on your young face turning to confusion as you looked up at me and I did not at once lower a lance and charge the dragon. You called out for my help, as if to remind me of my purpose.” Recounting this did not seem to affect Thranduil in any way. The elf might have been recounting a history of tax gathering for all that it moved him. 

“Help that never came.” Thorin did not see a point to such reminiscence. 

“Have you never wondered how I marched a host to the mountain from my forest within the short hours of the dragon’s attack?” The elf arched a single eyebrow, as if to prove that he was not, in fact, a marble statue. 

“You knew. You knew in advance.” The magnitude of that awareness barely had a chance to settle in Thorin’s mind before his hand went to the hilt of his sword. Perhaps there was room in his heart for hate, even on this day.

“In fact, I did. I saw the dragon-sickness in your grandfather’s eyes. When Thror could not part with the gems of Lasgalen even after I paid him and abased myself before his throne, I knew what he would summon with his greed. So it was that in returning to my own kingdom, I issued a declaration of war and made preparations.” 

The elven king continued like an implacable tree root, which cracked any stone in time, unmoved and unmoving as he described marching his host forth from Mirkwood for the sole purpose of slaughtering the dwarves of Erebor in bloody war. His eyes were blue. Long had Thorin known that the creature’s eyes were an unnatural shade, a perversion of the sort of blue that was often considered lucky in the line of Durin. Looking at them now, with their strange, alien shape, Thorin realized that they were not the eyes of a snake as he always believed. No, strange though they were, they seemed to be the eyes of a bird. A vulture, perhaps, or a hawk. Some predatory carrion eater, no doubt, but not one that lay hidden to strike at the heels of the unwary. 

“To your mind, it is a mercy that you did not fall upon us and push us back to be destroyed between your army and the dragon.” 

“Not so to your own.” Thranduil cocked his head to one side, trying to read Thorin’s expression. Definitely birdlike, the elves, except all the ways in which they were more alien than any raven or thrush. 

“There are greater mercies in this world.” 

“There are.” 

Thorin took a deep, slow breath. “I owe you nothing, Thranduil. No love or trust lies between us, but perhaps no blood does, either.”

One corner of the elven king’s mouth twitched upward, but it was not a smirk. He inclined his head toward Thorin fractionally. “Let it be so. Let us go forward from this moment and seek peace between our peoples. For we are neighbors once more, and I would not have that change.” 

Thorin returned the nod, and that seemed to appease Thranduil. 

“By your leave, my army will remain until more of your people come to defend the mountain,” the elf said. “The temptation of so much gold is great, and it would be inconvenient to have to make peace with some other king when I have only just achieved it with you.” 

Thorin did not laugh, though perhaps he smiled a little at the elven king’s back. If he did, it was only because Bilbo lived. Bilbo lived, and while he did, Thorin was not capable of scowling. Even the idea of elves on his doorstep did not disturb him. They would help keep Bilbo safe. 

Indeed, it was not long before Thorin had cause to be grateful a second time for Thranduil’s presence. When Dain arrived, at the head of a dwarven contingent, the elven king readied his own host to march away. Then Kili’s elf arrived in the company of Thranduil’s own son, warning them all that Azog approached with a vast army of orcs, trolls, wargs, and other foul things. 

An hour of warning was better than none. Before Thorin could leave the mountain for battle, he needed to address his Company. 

“The time has come,” he told them. “We crossed half the world to reclaim Erebor, and now we will fight to keep it. Even so, there is a greater duty. Who among you will forgo the glory of this battle to remain by Bilbo’s side?”

Kili and Dwalin both stepped forward. Thorin’s heart swelled with pride. He looked first to his nephew. Kili longed to prove himself in a great battle, as all princes must, and it cost him more than most to miss the chance.

“It is our family and our line that owes the greatest debt to Bilbo,” the young dwarf said. “It is right that we should protect him. I will not let you down, Uncle.” 

Thorin looked to Dwalin, wondering if he would dispute this claim. “Kili is noble to offer, and a fine fighter, but he is not yet my match. I failed Bilbo once, when I lost hope. As a friend, I ask for the chance to redeem myself.” 

The king considered, but he did not consider long. His thoughts were soon interrupted by a third member of the Company.

“That’s all well and good, then,” Bofur said, “and I hate to put myself up against royalty, but you’re all ignoring the real danger. Picking the person most likely to kill an army of orcs if they make it past our folk won’t help Bilbo any.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at the toymaker. 

“What do you think our hobbit is going to do if he realizes all of us are off fighting a war without him?” Bofur asked.

For a moment, the Company stood in silence, contemplating this. Then, the decision was made. 

“The task is yours, Bofur. He will not question your presence as he might wonder at spending time with Dwalin alone, or Kili without his brother. If we fall and Erebor is taken, I trust you can bring Bilbo safely to the secret passageway, and from there return him to his homeland.” 

Bofur nodded gravely. “You will not fall, my king. You’re too stubborn to let that sickly bastard win.” Then he grinned, “But if you do all manage to get yourselves slaughtered, I’ll just tell Bilbo that you’re too honorable to look upon a mighty hero who can’t look back. If I phrase it as an ancient dwarven custom, he might even believe it.” 

Some laughed. Most rolled their eyes. Thorin gripped the toymaker’s shoulder. He was not noble or well born. Bofur was as crass and common as a dwarf could come. Yet kindness and loyalty such as his were not common at all. A heart like his was more precious than gold. Minstrels would not sing of Bofur’s deeds this day; yet if Thorin could trade places with him, he would do so without hesitation. 

“I will not fail you, my king,” the toymaker promised. Thorin knew that he would not. Even so, there was one more thing he needed to do before leaving the mountain. 

Bilbo was awake. At least, his blank eyes were open and his breathing was not the slow, steady rhythm of healthy sleep. Thorin tapped the door once, softly. It would not do to disturb the convalescent if he was resting. Fortunately, the hobbit’s head turned slightly, his expressive face pinching in confusion. 

“Is someone there?” Bilbo asked. 

“Yes.” Thorin stepped fully into the little sickroom. Now that moving the hobbit would not cause trauma enough to kill him instantly, more appropriate chambers would need to be found for the Dragonslayer. 

“Thorin?” Bilbo still had his face scrunched up, as though if he squinted hard enough at the door, he might be able to see his visitor. Thorin wondered what he did see. Was it only darkness? A plane of white? Were there shadows or colors? Did he feel lonely? Trapped? Isolated?

“It is I,” said the king. “How do you fare?”

“Unreasonably tired,” the hobbit admitted. “I was sleeping until a moment ago, and I expect I shall be sleeping again soon. How is the mountain and everything?” Bilbo waved a hand, though clearly doing so cost him a great effort. “Has your cousin Dain arrived from the Iron Hills yet? Are you still getting on all right with Thranduil?”

“All is well, or will be soon,” Thorin vowed. “No enmity remains between the kingdom of Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain. The armies of Dain and Thranduil will do no harm to one another, as Thranduil will make no war upon the dwarves. He has what he came for, and moreover does me a second service by remaining to defend Erebor against any orcs or dark creatures.”

Bilbo’s smile upon hearing that the elves and the dwarves were at peace was so bright, Thorin wondered for a moment if his vision returned. “I am glad,” the hobbit said softly. Reaching out, he fumbled until he found Thorin’s hand, taking it in his. “You are a great king, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo said. “And great kings make peace, not war.” 

The guilt Thorin felt over not mentioning Azog’s approaching army had no place in the sickroom. Bilbo needed rest and safety, not another enemy of Erebor to face in his weakened state. The king squeezed the hobbit’s hand gently. 

“Speaking of Dain, it may be that he will wish to see you,” Thorin said.

“Well, I am in no fit state to entertain visitors. Though I shall, of course, be happy to meet any family of yours.” Bilbo hesitated. “As long as you do not think he will be greatly offended if I do not remain entirely alert. I nodded off while Balin was speaking to me a little while ago, I am quite mortified to admit.” 

“That is no matter,” Thorin said quickly. “And we will certainly not disturb you or impose upon your time. I thought I would offer, however. That is, I should like to give you a gift.”

“A gift?” Bilbo sat up a little. Thorin swiftly manipulated the pillows to support his new position. “Well, what are you hesitating about? Perhaps you do not know, Thorin, but hobbits dearly love presents.” 

“If that is the case, I shall shower you with them.” Thorin smiled as Bilbo huffed.

“I was not hinting,” the hobbit said.

“Even so, here is the first of many,” Thorin said, pressing his little bundle into Bilbo’s hands. “It is a mithril shirt of the finest dwarven make. No blade can pierce it.”

Bilbo laughed. “You just want me to wear something finer than a borrowed nightshirt from Laketown when I meet your cousin!” His hands traveled over the smooth rings of the mithril. 

“I would have you wear this,” Thorin said. “As a token of the great regard that the king of Erebor holds for you.” 

“Oh.” Bilbo looked down at the mithril in his hands, though he could not see it. His face was flushed with the effort of sitting up and making conversation. “Yes, then. I mean, thank you, Thorin. You are too kind.”

“Here,” Thorin said. Taking the armor back from Bilbo, he slipped it over the hobbit’s arms and down to cover his soft belly. The hero did not yet have hair to straighten. Beyond that lack, Bilbo’s cheeks were crimson with exertion and his eyes gazed sightlessly at Thorin’s shoulder. He was no longer the handsome little master of Bag End who charmed dwarven visitors with his strange manners. Here was a great warrior: marked by trials no other would have survived. Mithril suited Bilbo well. Very well. 

“I’m sure I look a fool,” Bilbo said, resting his rosy cheek against the pile of pillows supporting him. “Wearing armor in bed as though I could stand up and fight if I wanted to. Still, it is not heavy. In fact, I would go so far as to call it comfortable, though it surprises me greatly that metal should be so. Thank you again, Thorin.”

Thorin found his voice. “All that I have, I have because of you Bilbo Dragonslayer. I will not forget it.” 

“Oh, Thorin.” Bilbo frowned. “I hope you do not feel you owe me anything. Any peril I faced was of my own choosing, and I have been happy to share in your adventures. After all, I pray you will forgive the presumption, but I consider you to be. Well. That is to say.” 

Thorin’s heart pounded in his ears like the footfalls of an approaching army. The mithril gleamed like a looking glass in the soft light of the sickroom, emphasizing how delicate and deadly the heroic hobbit truly was. Bilbo was quick, clever, and sharp tongued. If he hesitated to speak of his feelings for Thorin, then those feelings must be strong indeed. Marriage had never been the goal of this adventure, but it now seemed the best and most fitting end to their story. Bilbo should possess in equal measure all that his deeds granted Thorin. Their course of action was obvious.

“We are friends, aren’t we?” Bilbo asked, almost plaintively. 

“Friends.” Thorin coughed. “Yes. Naturally we are friends, Bilbo.” 

“Oh.” Bilbo did not looked pleased by this pronouncement. Perhaps because Thorin hesitated so long before offering confirmation of the simple fact. 

Before Thorin could correct this interpretation, Balin and Bofur appeared in the doorway. 

“It is time, my king. Dain calls for you,” Balin said.

“Not to worry, Bilbo. You’re trading up, as far as company is concerned. Though not in terms of presents.” The toymaker gave a low whistle. “Is that mithril you’re wearing, then?”

Thorin ignored them both to put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulder and slowly press their foreheads together. It was a gesture of friendship, brotherhood, and simple affection. Bilbo sighed, and Thorin could feel it whisper across his beard. With great effort, the king mastered his desire to take a kiss from that clever mouth.

“If there are no debts owed in your version of friendship, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin said, “there must always be fairness in my own. It is now my turn, and I will brook no argument. My turn to give gifts. My turn to protect. My turn to show that you are valued.” 

“If you like.” Bilbo sounded breathless and his face was now flushed almost to the point of fever. Thorin did the hobbit’s health no favors by imposing his conversation and company. 

So the king took his leave, of Bilbo and of the mountain. It was time to defend both. Azog was on the horizon, marching with a host of orcs that covered the hills in darkness. 

Between Dain, Bard, and Thranduil, the three armies were already arrayed as a single force. The dwarves took the front to shield, the elves fell back to shoot, and the men filled in at the mid-range, their boat hooks as good as pikes in a pinch. Thorin’s Company joined the dwarves in places of honor. They would be the first to fight when the enemy arrived. 

Thranduil’s son Legolas found Thorin as he waited at the front of the dwarven contingent for the orcs to approach. 

“I believe an apology is owed to you for my part in waylaying your quest,” the elf said. 

Thorin waited impassively to see if such an apology would be forthcoming. His eyes were fixed on the distant orcs, and he said nothing. 

Legolas lifted Orcrist in both of his hands and extended it to the dwarf. “Gandalf tells me that this sword was reclaimed by your Company from a trio of cave trolls. Although it may have been forged by elves long ago, it was dwarven valor which reclaimed the blade from darkness. I should not have despoiled you of it. Please accept it, and my promise that in the future I will no longer assume the worst when dealing with your kin.” 

Taking the blade, Thorin turned at last to the elf. “When one is used to looking like a beggar, one expects to be taken for a thief. I accept your apology, son of Thranduil. Let there be no quarrel between us. Instead, let us take the quarrel to those who most deserve our enmity.” 

Nothing more needed to be said. The elf nodded and returned to his rank among the archers. Inexorably, Azog’s army marched closer. Then Thorin heard Legolas’s voice again. A single command, loud and clear, echoing across the desolation. At once the sky filled with elven arrows. To Thorin’s eye, every single one found mark in an orc, though perhaps only half of them killed their targets. The orcs shrieked and broke into a charge. Orcs were not slow, but there was time for a second volly before they crossed the full distance to meet with dwarven steel. Many more were struck, and some fell tripping on the bodies of their comrades. 

It was an unruly mob that broke across the dwarven shields. Orc after orc fell to dwarven axes and elven arrows, but they were only meant to tire the defenders and weaken their ranks. Thorin could see the trolls looming behind the first wave. 

He did not await them patiently. “For Bilbo!” he cried, charging forward. No trollish club would have a chance to break through the dwarven shield wall. Orcrist was sharp enough to pierce their rock hard skin. With Orcrist, Thorin could hamstring a troll. With Orcrist, he could climb the felled body of a warg to strike a troll’s head from its neck. With Orcrist, he could stand his ground against the massive creatures, cleaving their limbs away. 

“For Bilbo!” Dain cried, burying his ax in one orc while headbutting another to stun it until he could free his ax to slay the dazed creature. “By the way cousin,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. What’s a Bilbo?” 

Thorin smiled at his antics and looked around the bloody chaos of the battlefield. Only orcs attacked now. The massive siege weapons hauled forward by the trolls were abandoned, too far from the walls of Erebor to be of use. 

“The trolls are the only real danger to our shield wall. Without them our lines will hold.” 

Nevertheless, there were other dangers. A warg and rider charged at Thorin, bearing down on him with tooth and spear. Stepping smoothly to one side, Thorin beheaded the mount with one stroke and the rider with his backswing. Orcrist slipped through flesh and bone like gold through the fingers of a spendthrift: freely, swiftly, and to devastating effect. 

“Aye,” Dain said. “But you’ve taken care of this batch. Almost single handedly. And well away from our lines, I might add.” 

Thorin blinked. His Company and his cousin were with him, but they were surrounded on all sides by orcs. For the most part, this did not seem to matter. Many of the cowardly things rushed past to take their chances with the main force instead of the fell warriors who charged out at Thorin’s side. Even so, it was not a safe position. Fili and Kili at least should return to the lines, now that there were no trolls in this wave of Azog’s forces. 

“Bilbo the Dragonslayer is one of our Company,” Balin told Dain. “After felling Smaug in single combat, he was wounded, and lies now blinded within the mountain.” 

“Then the orcs must not reach the mountain,” Dain said. Obvious as this was, it was well put. 

Taking his cousin by the arm, Thorin slammed their heads together joyfully. “I trust you will hold the line, Cousin.” 

“And where are you going?” Dain asked, playfully spinning to block an enormous mace aimed at his back and slaying his attacker easily. “The trolls in the next ranks will be here soon enough, if orcs are not enough of a challenge for you.” 

Thorin looked up at the flags on Ravenhill. They seemed to mock his efforts, urging wave after wave of the orcish army to attack. “I go to finish what I started long ago,” he said. 

Of course the Company followed. Their loyalty was too great to part from Thorin, even as he waded through danger into greater danger. Some fought to clear his way. Some stayed behind to hold it. Though it was at his behest and on his command, Thorin knew they did not fight on his behalf. “For Bilbo!” they cried, and for Bilbo they made it to Ravenhill despite the odds. 

Only Fili, Kili, and Dwalin reached that final destination with Thorin. When they arrived, the ancient watchtower seemed as empty as the desolation. Wary of Azog’s treacherous cunning, Thorin sent Fili and Kili to scout while he and Dwalin destroyed the command flags. This insult did not draw out their enemy. Worse, Fili and Kili did not return at the appointed time. Snow fell on Ravenhill, muffling the distant sound of battle and covering the world in silence. 

Dwalin and Thorin went to seek the princes. Finding Fili was the work of a minute. Azog had Thorin’s heir by the throat. Sneering at the king across a vast precipice, the Pale Orc threatened to end the line of Durin. Time seemed to slow. Snowflakes danced between them. Thorin’s mind drifted to Bilbo Baggins, Dragonslayer. What would Bilbo do? The king wondered. Then he threw his sword. 

No blade but Orcrist could have flown so true, like a javelin over the vast divide. Thorin’s aim was sure. The sword of Gondolin struck Azog between the eyes, sliding into the orc’s skull like a foot slipping into a boot. 

Deftly, Fili reached over his shoulder, withdrawing the blade from the Pale Orc’s face as the body fell. Landing on his feet, the prince turned and screamed in defiance to the rest of his captors. Seeing their leader so easily defeated, their courage broke. Shrieking, the orcs fell back to regroup. Fili followed them with Orcrist, cutting them down as they fled. 

Thorin did not have time to savor the defeat of his grandfather’s murderer. Instead, he took the dwarven sword from his belt and turned with Dwalin to face hundreds of charging goblins. Azog’s death would not end the fighting or disarm all of his traps. But every goblin split by Thorin’s blade was one fewer to charge the gates of Erebor. The further Thorin could keep the battle from Bilbo, the happier he would be. Ravenhill was as good a place as any to make a stand.


	5. Valor, Renown, and Other Pointless Things

After his interlude with Thorin, Bilbo slept. He meant to stay awake to talk with Bofur, but sitting up for so long and changing his clothes drained all of his energy. He simply couldn’t manage it. This turned out to be no problem at all, for when he woke, Bofur was still there. 

“Back, actually,” Bofur corrected him. “My brother was sitting with you before. Left you a little something, if you want it.” 

The little something Bombur brought turned out to be a very passable onion soup. With tea and fresh bread, it made for a lovely luncheon. Or perhaps elevenses. 

“What time is it?” 

“Lunchtime,” Bofur said cheerfully. “Want some more?” 

Which was not at all helpful, even though Bilbo certainly did want a second bowl. “Dwarves wouldn’t know elevenses from afternoon tea if they spent all day in the kitchen,” he said. 

Bofur laughed. “We’ll get you a clock, then, and you can tell us.” 

Bilbo hoped the pang in his heart did not show on his face. He would never be able to read a clock again. He would never be able to read anything for himself again. “Or you could just tell me the time when I ask,” the hobbit said. 

Bofur was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Twelve-thirty, by my reckoning, though I do not have a clock on hand either.” 

“Sorry.” Bilbo felt very foolish. “Please accept my apologies, Bofur. I didn't mean to vent my spleen like that.” 

Bofur laughed again. “If that is a hobbit’s anger, you are gentle folk indeed,” he said. “But here is your soup. Tea’s in the right corner of your tray furthest from you, and there’s another piece of bread on your left. Say the word if you want more butter.” 

So it was lunch after all, and Bilbo enjoyed it. Though eating proved strenuous enough that he dozed off almost immediately once he was done. When he woke again, it was to Bofur whistling a jaunty little tune absently. 

“Oh, Bilbo, are you up? Need anything? You just missed Balin. Lucky lad, you keep waking up in time to talk with me!” 

Bilbo hid a smile. It was very clear that the timing had more to do with Bofur’s boisterous nature and relative inability to keep quiet than any luck or lack thereof on Bilbo’s part. Unfortunately, he did need something. 

“Is, er, is Oin around?” No matter which dwarf aided him, Bilbo’s request would be mortifying, but at least Oin had chosen to live a life where such tasks might occasionally fall to him. 

“What is it?” There was a loud slam that gave Bilbo a start until he realized Bofur must have knocked over whatever chair he was sitting in. “Are you in pain again? Numb? Is it your eyes?” 

“No, no,” Bilbo said quickly. “Nothing like that, I promise!” Fumbling around, he eventually found Bofur’s hand with his own. “It’s certainly not urgent.” Then, for honesty’s sake, he added, “Well, it is a bit urgent. I just need Oin’s help with something.” 

“I’ll help you,” Bofur said. “Oin’s off with Dain’s folk right now. Might take me a bit of time to find him. But he left potions and instructions if you are in pain or anything like that.”

“No,” Bilbo repeated. “I’m not in pain. I can wait. If you, er, don’t mind going to get him?” 

The room was silent for a moment. Then Bofur asked, “Gotta shit?” 

“What?” Bilbo squeaked. “No. Of course not!” 

“There’s a bedpan right here if you need it, and a chamber pot if all you have to do is piss.”

“I’m not going to—Bofur, you’re my friend. I’m certainly not going to ask you to—”

“I’m your friend,” Bofur said. “So you don’t need to ask for my help. Which one do you need, Bilbo? It’ll take me at least an hour to find Oin and get him back here. Though if you’d prefer Thorin’s help to mine, finding the king would be easy enough.” 

Bilbo scowled in what he hoped was Bofur’s general direction. Unfortunately, there was no helping it. “The chamber pot, please.” 

There were no trousers underneath Bilbo’s nightshirt, so he did not need very much help. All it took was a bit of shifting the pillows so that he could roll onto his side. Then Bofur held the pot and Bilbo found the opening. It wasn’t complicated, just terribly awkward. 

Bofur gave a low whistle. “Bigger than I’d think for such a little fellow.” 

Bilbo spluttered. “How can you think to—that is—it’s none of your business!” 

“Can’t help a little friendly curiosity,” Bofur said. 

Ignoring him, Bilbo relieved himself into the pot. It was a rather urgent matter, and one could not expect good manners from dwarves. In a way, that was a relief. He wasn’t sure he could bear to do such an ill mannered thing in front of a friend who valued courtesy. 

“Did you have hair down there before?” Bofur asked, as he helped Bilbo tuck back into bed. “Or is it like your cheeks, and you just don’t grow it the way a dwarf would?” 

“Why I never!” Bilbo patted the tops of his thighs and around the base of his phallus. His skin was smooth, with just the barest hint of stubble. He blinked his sightless eyes. “I did have hair,” he said. “It must have burnt away.” 

Suddenly, something occurred to him. Putting a hand on his head, Bilbo didn’t feel the unruly curls that so plagued his mother in his youth. His scalp was bare, smooth, with a few light bumps that might one day be stubble. How ridiculous it was, that he should not have realized he was bald. How strange that such a thing should matter to him. Even so, Bilbo felt strangely small. Stupid, really. To go so many days without realizing he had no hair to comb.

Thinking back to his conversation with Thorin, to the king’s mention of regard, Bilbo felt particularly mortified. Part of his heart dared to hope that there might have been some attraction mixed in with that regard, but now he knew it to be the greatest sort of foolishness. After all, not only was Bilbo as weak as a newborn babe, he was as bald as one. 

“Sorry,” Bofur said. His voice was soft. Contrite, even, which was strange. A dwarf who would ask so openly about pubic hair could hardly be expected to apologize for pointing out it’s absence. “I thought you knew.”

“It’s no real loss,” Bilbo said. “It is only hair. And anyway, it will grow back. Won’t it?” 

“Yes,” Bofur said quickly. “The elf and Oin both promised it would. Though Oin thinks the stuff on your feet might take longer than the rest. Not sure why. Maybe that it’s thicker?” 

“I have no hair on my toes?” Bilbo’s voice sounded high and reedy to his own ears. 

“I’m sorry,” Bofur repeated. “Oh, Bilbo, I’m so sorry.” 

“Quite alright,” Bilbo said quickly. “It’s quite alright. Only, I just. Could you please excuse me for a minute.” 

“Course, Bilbo,” Bofur said. “One of us will be right outside if you need anything. Just give a shout.” 

There were a few footsteps, followed by the sound of a door closing. Then Bilbo was alone. At least, he hoped he was alone. It would not do for any of the dwarves to see him weeping. 

A few more meals came and went with Bofur as Bilbo’s primary company. The hobbit didn’t know why the other dwarves stayed away, but he didn’t mind, really. Bofur was quick with a joke, and quicker still with his flute. If Bilbo had to be bedridden, the best musician in the Company was a fine person to pass the time with. Anyway, for the most part, he slept. He was so very tired. The rest of the Company probably had more interesting things to do than sit with a sleepy hobbit.

When he woke, it was to a different sort of music. The sound was a repetitive clanging, like a bell ringing, but not quite. 

“Here now, Bilbo’s asleep,” Bofur hissed. “You lot bugger off.” 

“I took a bath for this!” An unfamiliar voice said. It was the loudest voice Bilbo could recall hearing since the world went dark. Not at all the voice of a respectful visitor to a sick room. Bilbo was intrigued. “This one even made me put down my drink!”

“Hush! I command it.” That slurred whisper was Thorin. He sounded drunk. Thorin Oakenshield sounded drunk. Bilbo had to be mistaken. He could not imagine anything more incongruous. 

“Thorin?” he asked.

“You woke him, you useless elf-licker.” Thorin was no longer whispering, and he was definitely slurring his words. Bilbo grinned. 

“Is that how you intend to introduce me to your cousin, Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo asked, utterly delighted. It was a guess, but not much of one. Thorin barely touched his wine in Rivendell, drank no mead at Beorn’s house, and only nursed a single beer during the Laketown feast. Sometimes, one needed the trappings of home and family to feel comfortable letting go of sensibility. It was absolutely wonderful that Thorin was finally relaxed enough to drink properly. Bilbo honestly hadn’t thought he was capable of it. 

“That is not what I meant to say,” Thorin said. “Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End and the Shire, Dragonslayer of Smaug the Terrible, please allow me to present my useless, elf-licking cousin Dain.” Then he giggled. Thorin Oakenshield giggled. Bilbo pressed a hand to his own mouth to stifle a laugh of his own. It was terribly rude, of course, but he could hardly help it. Thorin was drunk. 

“Dain Ironfoot,” the fellow said. His brogue was thicker than any of the dwarves Bilbo traveled with, and the hobbit could hear laughter in his voice. “A few years younger than Thorin, but fatter and grayer. I have the Firebrand hair like Gloin, though I was not lucky enough to get a beard as thick. I’m called Ironfoot because of this thing.” The bell which woke Bilbo rang out a few more times in a quick, irregular way. “Lost part of my leg in the battle of Azanulbizar. I’ve a false one with a boot that looks normal to most folks, but the iron one is sturdier. Better for drinking, fighting, and anything else that might make me lose my balance and fall on my arse.” 

Bilbo was absolutely charmed. “It is a true pleasure to meet you, Dain Ironfoot,” he said. “Thank you for telling me what you look like. I cannot imagine many folk would think to do so.” Holding out a hand, he felt a rough dwarvish palm shake it. 

“Not entirely useless,” Thorin said fondly. 

“Ach!” Dain laughed. “Quit tackling me, you great big dwarfling. No, I take that back, you were never this bad as a dwarfling.” 

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo said, no longer containing his own laugh, “I believe you are drunk.” 

There was a sound of a scuffle. “I believe I am,” he agreed slowly. “It is Dain’s fault.” 

“It is,” Dain agreed. “I owe you a great debt Bilbo Dragonslayer.” 

Bilbo flushed, feeling oddly disappointed. “Oh, not at all. I assure you.” 

“Believe me, I do,” Dain insisted. “I have been trying to get my cousin drunk for almost a century, you know. He’s always so serious, even when he was only a princeling. Never had any luck. Until now. He won’t refuse a toast to your health, you know. Not a one. Watch: to the Dragonslayer!” 

The sound of a cork being pulled was quickly followed by Thorin proclaiming, “To Bilbo!” 

“Oh dear,” Bilbo said. “Perhaps you should slow down? If you’re not used to heavy drinking, you’ll have a head tomorrow morning, and no mistake.” 

Ignoring this advice, Thorin said, “I will refuse nothing either of you deign to ask. You are my favorite. My favorite people. Because you came. You both came. I asked for help, and you came. Thanks to Bilbo, Smaug is dead, and thanks to Dain, Azog is. I have no enemies left, only two people who I love beyond all words.” 

“Azog?” Bilbo was astounded by such a casual mention of Thorin’s hated nemesis. 

“Aw, ignore him,” Dain said. “He killed Azog himself. In glorious battle! Indeed, my cousin covered himself with so much honor that the bards will not believe it when they set it to song. A dozen trolls, at least!” 

“It was not a dozen trolls,” Thorin said. 

“That’s right, it was more,” Dain insisted. “But no one would believe it. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen you with my own eyes. That elf sword of yours might have helped, but the way you fought through the crush to hunt down troll after troll was nothing but pure dwarven grit.”

“Hold on a moment,” Bilbo said. “There was a battle? You fought Azog again?” 

“Um,” Thorin said. A few moments ago, drunken hesitation from Thorin Oakenshield would have been amusing. Now, Bilbo felt too cold and angry to laugh at him. “Please, Bilbo. I know you would want to fight in the battle.” 

“I would absolutely not want to fight in a battle! I can’t even stand up on my own!” 

“Exactly!” Thorin said triumphantly. “So I could not ask you to stand at my side, much as I know you would want to.” 

“I would not want to,” Bilbo cried. 

“Then why are you upset?” Thorin asked. 

“Because you ought to have told me! You cannot go around keeping things from me just because you can get away with it now that I am blind.” 

Thorin was very quiet for a moment. Then he said, “It was my turn. To protect you. I could not let you stand in the way of such danger for me again, as you have done so many times to your own misfortune.” 

“Oh, Thorin.” Bilbo reached out, groping about for a little bit until he found the king’s hand. “I will not say it is all right. For you ought to tell me about things like battles when they happen. I must know. What if you were hurt? What if you were killed? And me, lying in this bed, thinking you were off counting your treasure with your cousin the whole time. Please be forthright with me Thorin. I assure you, I am well aware that I could do absolutely nothing in the face of an army, especially at the moment, but I would still like to know.” 

“Understood,” Thorin said. “The next time danger approaches the mountain, I promise to tell you.” 

Something strange brushed against Bilbo’s hand. Soft, yet bristly, like autumn wheat. A beard, perhaps? Bilbo blushed. It could not be that. “See that you do,” he said, in as businesslike a manner as he could muster. “And if you are serious about doing me a service, drink some water before you go to bed. You make an amusing drunk, but I suspect you will be impossible to deal with when you are feeling poorly tomorrow.” 

Dain’s laugh filled the room, but soon enough, Thorin bid Bilbo goodnight and it was empty. 

After everything, Bilbo was once again nothing but a burden to the dwarves. How that hurt! There could be no doubt that overall Thorin was very glad to have Bilbo’s aid during the quest. Indeed, the king said as much plainly. But now that usefulness was at an end. Bilbo could not help anymore. Not that he would ever have been much good in a pitched battle. Still, if Bilbo could see, Thorin would have mentioned the approaching army. There had been time. Thorin proved it by dressing Bilbo in armor before going off to war himself. 

Time was obviously not the issue. It was a question of respect. Apparently, Bilbo lost Thorin’s when he lost his vision.

“I guess you’re pretty ticked at Thorin, then,” Bofur said quietly. 

Surprised to find his friend still in the room, the hobbit quickly wiped his eyes on the bed linen. “What? Oh, yes. Furious.” 

“Just Thorin?” 

Bilbo did not pretend to misunderstand the question. “Did he order you to lie?” 

“Nope. Didn’t even occur to our noble king that it would be a good idea. He was going to have Dwalin stand guard at your door armed to the teeth for the duration.” 

Bilbo wouldn’t deny that Bofur’s company was more pleasant than that. He was still livid. “So it was you! You told him to lie to me!” 

“Yep,” Bofur said easily. “What would you have done, Bilbo? Really. What would you do if you knew an army of orcs that was at least three times bigger than all our forces and our allies was on the way?” 

“Something!” Bilbo said. Slowly, the fight left him. He was too exhausted to sustain it. “I don’t know. Sit here worrying, probably.” 

“Right. So forgive me for thinking that just now you need rest you wouldn’t be getting if you did that. It’s nothing to do with you being blind, Bilbo. It’s that you’re bedridden. And you won’t be bedridden forever.” 

Bilbo sighed. There was some justice to this. The greatest evidence of which was that he already felt like fading back into sleep. “Next time you have to tell me.” 

“I promise,” Bofur said. “What’s better, you made Thorin promise. I don’t think our king is capable of breaking his word.” 

Bilbo smiled. “I can’t believe he was actually drunk. Did his face go red beneath his beard?” 

“Aye,” Bofur said. “And not to slander the line of Durin, but I’d swear he had half a mug of beer sloshed down the front of his shirt.” 

Bilbo’s eyes closed. He didn’t see any more or less that way, but it felt natural to let them fall shut. “Good for him,” he murmured. “He’s home.”


	6. Reclamation

After battle and celebration, ruling was nothing but hard work. This came as no surprise to Thorin Oakenshield, though several other things did. 

First, Thranduil and his army of elves did, in fact, leave in peace, taking nothing but the gems of Lasgalen. Begrudgingly, Thorin’s gratitude went with them as well. Mirkwood would never be a friend to Erebor under Thorin’s rule, but he could not deny the alliance. 

Second, rewarding Dain’s army for their work in the battle brought labor and new citizens to Erebor. Every dwarf was given a large sack of gold in thanks for their service. These were only coins, and the Company agreed that the measure should be taken from the hoard before any other divisions were made. On top of this monetary reward, any dwarf who did not wish to return to the Iron Hills with Dain was offered a home in Erebor. Nearly half of them chose to remain. Some were dwarves Thorin recognized. When Erebor fell to Smaug, Dain welcomed many refugees in the Iron Hills. Others he knew to be new settlers. For those, he apologized to Dain. It was never his intention to weaken his cousin’s army. 

“I did not think so many would accept the offer,” the King Under the Mountain told the Lord of the Iron Hills.

“Ach. Don’t apologize. It doesn't suit you. Makes you look like a constipated elf.” Dain clapped Thorin on the back. “The Iron Hills don’t have veins of gold that run like rivers, nor the promise of building something new. We’re safe and settled, which isn’t nearly as much fun. If thirteen of my soldiers follow me home, I’ll count myself lucky.” 

“You could stay,” Thorin offered, though he knew it wasn’t fair. Dain had responsibilities to the Iron Hills that could not be easily ignored. Even so, it had been too long since they were last together. Thorin found that he did not like to part so soon. Dwarven hearts were jealous, possessive things, after all. 

Smiling, Dain crashed their foreheads together. “I’ve too much iron in me to chase after gold. An iron foot, an iron skull, and the Iron Hills for me. But it’s not so far away as the Blue Mountains. You’ll be sick of my visits soon enough.” 

“Never,” Thorin said. And although the Lord of the Iron Hills prefered steel to gold, Thorin sent him home with gold by the wagonload. He also gave his cousin a crown of rubies, mithril beads for his beard, a suit of fine armor, a shield born by their great grandfather, a jeweled goblet, a set of jade combs, and many other wonderful things besides. When no one else would aid the homeless dwarves of Erebor, when Stiffbeards and Blacklocks turned them away, Dain sent an army. Thorin would not be miserly with his gratitude. 

Most surprisingly of all, even after everything, some still found him so. 

Alfrid Lickspittle had a hunched posture that made him look like a coiled weasel waiting to strike. Moreover, his manner of speech was undignified. He sniveled and groveled while at the same time making demands of those he considered inferior. It was clear that all dwarves were inferior in his eyes, even the King Under the Mountain. 

“I do not understand you,” Thorin said plainly. “We have kept our promise to Dale. I withhold nothing which belongs to that once-fair city. Just this morning another cart went to Bard full of coin and other treasures that were recognized as belonging to Men.” 

“Forgive me, Your Highness, for speaking so directly. Dwarves are said to like that sort of thing, so I’ll dare it. Bard and Dale would be the problem.” Alfrid ducked his head and peered up at Thorin. The king could not openly call his expression insolent, but it was. 

“I thought the rebuilding was going well.” Thorin looked to Balin, who understood him well enough to play along. 

“Indeed, sire. More than a few stonemasons from the Iron Hills have found employment in Dale helping the Men rebuild the city. By all accounts, most of the buildings will be habitable before winter comes on in force. Their life is no more comfortable than our own, for they are spoiled in metal and stone, while wanting for cloth just as we are, but they will weather it until better trade comes with the spring. And of course, they trade with Laketown as we do.” 

“Trade.” Alfrid snorted. Then, seeming to remember himself, he bowed very low. “My apologies, your majesty, but we were not promised trade. We were promised rich reward for aiding you on your quest. Yet all of it seems to go to Bard and Dale, not to the Master of Laketown, who gave you shelter, food, transportation, and weaponry at his own expense.” 

Thorin wanted to sneer. To ask for payment for a single night of feasting, a single boat ride across a lake, and a few poorly-forged swords was as churlish and parsimonious as dwarves were always reported to be. 

Gandalf’s voice was so soft that Thorin alone heard his words. “Do you want them to be able to say you owe them a debt?” 

Thorin blinked. It was always something of a surprise when the wizard proved to be truly wise. “Very well. Fair payment will be given for the Master’s aid. Let us say one hundred gold coins for the room and board of each member of my Company for each night he hosted us, and two hundred for myself. One hundred gold coins for each member of my Company ferried across the Long Lake with me to reach the Mountain by Durin’s Day. Fifty gold coins for each and every weapon or piece of clothing given to our Company, be it sock or sword, based on an accounting agreed to by Mister Lickspittle and Lord Gloin. Does that suit, Mister Lickspittle?” 

With each sum mentioned, the greedy man’s eyes widened until Thorin thought they might fall from his head. In the end, he said, “Very fair, Your Majesty. Very fair indeed. Thank you.” Then he rushed off with Gloin to see to the accounting. 

“See to it that Bard is given the same for the many nights he hosted our Company and my nephews, and twice as much for bringing Oin when we most needed him,” Thorin instructed Balin. 

It was done. When Alfrid disappeared with the gold intended for Laketown, Thorin sent the same sum again with Dwalin. The dwarf put the money directly into the Master’s hands. What happened to it after that was no business of Erebor’s. Gandalf was right. It was not wise to owe debts to such people.

“Do you find it difficult, to part with so much gold?” Gandalf waited until they were alone to ask, so Thorin considered the question and did rush to his own defense. 

“I do not like giving it to Laketown,” he said. “Esgaroth is a miserable place, and more gold in the pockets of its Master will not improve life there. As far as Mister Lickspittle goes, I hope he fell into the lake and sank from the weight of his riches. Giving to Bard and to Dain, though? That is easy enough. If I gave them all the gold in this mountain, I would still not pay my debt to them both. Gold cannot buy life, and well do I know that is what I owe.” 

Gray eyes twinkled underneath the wizard’s bushy brow. “Good. You have resisted the temptation, Thorin Oakenshield. I was worried that a dwarf of your line might have trouble going from abject poverty to owning gold enough to fill the Long Lake, but you have been able to break up the hoard. No more dragons will be called to this mountain while you rule.” 

Thorin stared at him. “Do not speak to me like a schoolmarm to a clever pupil! I know my own failings well enough. I require neither condescension nor consolation from you, old man.” 

Gandalf’s eyes went wide. He took a step back, away from Thorin. “Failure? You have accomplished everything you set out to do. Erebor is retaken. Smaug and Azog are slain. Indeed, I would call the casualties from your battle remarkably low, given the numbers you faced. What failure do you speak of?” 

There was a fine marble statue of Durin the Second in one corner of the room. Thorin admired the way the sculptor captured the draping fabric of the statesman’s robes. Every hair of the dwarf’s mighty beard was expressed in stonework so lifelike that Thorin was tempted to fix his ancestor’s braid. It was a work of art too long unappreciated in a dragon’s den. Such a masterpiece should be seen.

“Thorin. What happened to Bilbo is no fault of yours.”

“I know that,” Thorin snapped. “It is your fault. I told you as much when you insisted he should come. One hobbit alone against a dragon. What kind of strategy is that?” 

“It is a strategy Bilbo agreed to,” Gandalf said sternly. “He is no subject of yours to be ordered into danger. Nor is he a fool. Grant him the valor of one who understood the risk, feared it, and took it anyway because it was the right thing to do.”

“For friendship,” Thorin said, even though the admission pained him.

“Exactly,” Gandalf said. “All that is left now is for you to be worthy of his friendship. Guilt helps nothing, Thorin. And I tell you now, he will not tolerate it. Already he fears that you will coddle him or treat him differently.”

Considering the hobbit’s rage at being left in the dark about Azog’s army, Thorin thought this point was justified. Moreover, the conversation was finally getting interesting. “And is there a way? For me to be worthy of his friendship?” 

The old man looked confused. “So long as you are a friend to him, you are worthy of his friendship, Thorin. The most important thing is only making time. A king has many demands on his day, which Bilbo will certainly understand. If you take a meal together now and again, I am sure he will find your company adequate.” 

“You know that is not what I mean,” Thorin growled. “Wizard: I ask you. Is there no magic bauble, no questing beast, no elvish silmaril that can restore his vision?” 

Gandalf sighed. “There are many miraculous things in this world, Thorin Oakenshield. If you spent the next few years of your life questing, I do not doubt that you might find something suitable. Or die nobly in the attempt. In the process, you would make it quite clear to Bilbo that you value his eyes more than his friendship.” 

Recoiling away from the wizard, Thorin said, “You cannot be serious.” 

“Does the iron foot make your cousin less of a warrior?”

“No. But it pains him. Every day he wears it, it pains him.” 

“As the loss of his vision will always pain Bilbo.” It was Gandalf’s turn to look away. “Life in this world is full of pain.” Suddenly, the wizard met Thorin’s eyes once more. “It is in the darkness that we see starlight.” 

Thorin wanted to be pedantic. To grumble about the fact that there would be no starlight for Bilbo. Something about the wizard’s expression made that feel impossibly childish, though, and he conceded the point. “I should not have sent Bilbo to face the dragon alone,” Thorin whispered. The confession could no longer be contained. 

The warm hand on his shoulder was a surprise. Few dared lay hands on the person of a king without invitation, but Gandalf was always a law unto himself. “Apologize to him then,” the wizard said. “When we feel we have wronged our friends, all we can do is apologize.” 

Clearly, this was terrible advice. Once again, Gandalf was condescending to Thorin, treating him as a child. A king could not apologize to a great hero for granting him the opportunity to cover his name in glory. Adults did not take responsibility for the actions of their friends. Besides, Thorin was far too busy to concern himself with such matters. 

Every dwarf that could be spared was needed to repair the aqueduct system, but that work would be easier once the forges were up and running. The forges could not be useful until there was fuel for their fires, so the coal mine at least must reopen. The coal miners could not work without water to run through their wheels, so the aqueducts were needed more than ever. One problem solved inevitably lead to six more difficulties, and Thorin spent his days and nights fighting to make his home habitable once more. 

Leaving it all to Fili and Balin while he quested after some trinket from the First Age to restore Bilbo’s sight would have been much easier. 

“You need a barn raising,” Bilbo said, when he heard of the difficulty. 

Thorin paused, wondering if the hobbit was too unwell to listen to the troubles of a kingdom, despite the king’s promise. “Usually, we leave the matter of livestock to Dale, other than our war goats or the occasional boar. Animals do not do well within the mountain.”

Bilbo laughed. “I don’t mean an actual barn,” the hobbit said. 

“In the Shire, digging out a new smial is the work of years, maybe even generations. ‘Anything worth doing is worth doing right,’ as my father used to say, and we would never rush the building of something as important as a home.”

Mentally, Thorin added a few more flourishes to his personal project, but he listened attentively to Bilbo’s advice. “A barn is different?” the king guessed.

“Sometimes, yes. If one is destroyed by a storm, or a roof caves in, it can be dreadfully urgent to put a new one up at once. In a case like that, the farmer throws a party. All of the neighbors come around to help him build in exchange for a good meal and a merry time. ‘Many hands make light work,’ is another saying in the Shire. I have wielded a hammer on such occasions myself, though I have never so much as put up shelves on my own in Bag End. You might be surprised by how much use unskilled helpers can be on a big job, when there are experienced folk about to offer guidance.” 

“And which barn would you have us build?” Thorin asked. “The coal mine to fuel the rest of our work?”

“The plumbing,” Bilbo said firmly. “I mean, the aqueducts, or whatever you called them. Clean water, good food, and then warmth are what your people need first and foremost, Thorin. Otherwise you will have sickness, weak workers, and death.” Then he coughed. “Though I am sure you know best, of course, and I would not presume to lecture a king.” 

Thorin smiled, and pressed Bilbo’s hand gently between both of his own, since the hobbit could not see his face. “I am grateful for your wisdom, my clever burglar. It shall be as you say.”

And, indeed, once every dwarf in the mountain was put to repairing the damaged aqueducts, the whole system was up and running within a few short days. Thorin wanted to extend the benefit to Bilbo’s sick room, that the hobbit might no longer need to use the chamber pot and bedpan which he clearly loathed. It would be a luxury for the little fellow as well, to be able to turn a tap in his golden tub and have a hot bath whenever he wanted one. Unfortunately, it would be far too impractical to run piping all the way through the treasure chambers—still damaged from Smaug’s residence and demise—for a short term benefit. Soon, Bilbo would be well enough to go to a better part of the mountain, full of every luxury imaginable. In the interim, his meager sick room would remain as it was.

The greatest luxury was time, and there was little enough of that to go around. Winter was not as hard on mountain dwelling dwarves as the Men of Dale and Laketown. The inside of a mountain was never warm, but it was also never cold enough to freeze water. Even so, the season presented many challenges. Just keeping everyone fed was an issue, for Laketown did not have nearly enough of a surplus to support Erebor, unless everyone wanted to eat nothing but fish. Soon, Thorin learned from Bard that the Master was starving his own people to sell their goods for dwarven gold. Upon the advice of Bilbo and Balin, the king ceased all trade in that quarter and relied on the merchants who came from further afield. But those merchants dared snowy roads indeed, and charged high prices as a result. 

It was easy to talk to Bilbo about the challenges Erebor faced. The hobbit’s clever mind always had some valuable advice to offer, even if he occasionally fell asleep in the middle of a conversation. Yet talking to him was sometimes the greatest difficulty of all for Thorin. 

“Bilbo Baggins, I would have words with you,” the king said abruptly. 

The hobbit paused. “We, er, are having words, Thorin. Specifically, I am recommending that you do not buy fish from anywhere save the Long Lake. There’s an old adage in the Shire that fish from faraway brings only sickness. If it were up to me, I’d buy all the potatoes this Stiffbeard caravan can sell, but I’d leave the fish for fertilizer. I would never accuse them of ill intent, but I think these Stiffbeard merchants may be more interested in your gold than maintaining their own reputation for valuable goods. I can’t think of any other reason why they’d bring fish all the way up from the East. Instead of, say, salt pork.” 

“I owe you an apology,” Thorin said stiffly. “It is long overdue.” 

“Oh!” Bilbo flushed and sat up a little straighter. These days he only needed a few pillows for support, and could sit up on his own for minutes at a time. “Well, that is quite alright. You must know that I forgive you. After all, I shall not be bedridden forever, and you have been keeping your promise to tell me about all of the problems the mountain faces.” 

“No, not for failing to mention Azog,” Thorin said. “As you say, my vow to tell you of every danger Erebor faces reconciles us upon that score. Nay, I am sorry for sending you to meet Smaug alone. I should have been by your side. Letting you face such danger on your own was not a fitting act for a friend or a king.” 

Bilbo frowned and moved his hand in the seeking, grasping motion that meant he would like to touch the person he was speaking with. Thorin took the hand in both of his. The hobbit’s palm was soft and uncalloused. A scholar’s hand, not a fighter’s. 

“Thorin, I am glad you were not with me. I was tremendously lucky. In fact, I cannot imagine any series of events that would have let me survive other than exactly what happened. If I had not found myself sitting on that magic shield, sailing through the air like one of Gandalf’s rockets, I would have melted away with everything else caught in that explosion. I doubt there were two such shields in all the treasure. No matter what you dwarves like to think, I did not fell Smaug in heroic battle. I don’t believe that monster could have been killed by all fourteen of us working together, even if Gandalf deigned to help. Everything that happened is for the best, and if it cost me my sight, at least it did not cost any of us our lives.” 

This was a reasonable point. Thorin could not argue with any part of it. Nor did he wish to argue with Bilbo. To do so would be entirely foolish. So he said nothing.

The hobbit smiled. “Alright, Thorin. I forgive you.” 

Thorin’s hands tightened on Bilbo’s reflexively. “You said there was nothing to forgive.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re wrong either,” Bilbo said. “It does not matter that I would have been blind and useless in your fight with Azog or that you would not have survived my flight from Smaug. The truth is, we ought to face danger together. That's what friends are for. So I shall forgive you, and beg your pardon in turn.”

“Thank you,” Thorin said, unable to contain his smile. “I forgive you as well, if you truly desire such a thing.” 

“Then that is that.” Bilbo leaned back against his pillows with a sigh. “We’ll both do better in the future.” 

“Indeed.” Thorin looked down at their clasped hands. Minutes passed in comfortable silence. 

After a time, the dwarf even dared to stroke the back of the hobbit’s soft hand. 

Finally, he spoke. “To that end, Bilbo, I have for some time hoped that you might be willing to share more of my future than the perils alone. Rebuilding Erebor is a monumental task, but with your help the work is halved. The joy of rediscovering my homeland is great, but with you by my side it would be unending. Would you do me the great honor of joining your life to mine, work and reward in equal measure, and making your home here with me?” 

The only answer to this was a gentle snore. Bilbo was, of course, fast asleep.


	7. Help in the Dark

Bilbo’s health improved very slowly, but it did improve. With a little help, he was able to get out of bed and sit in an armchair for meals. After a time, he was even allowed to bathe himself, though the dwarves were very insistent that someone else ought to be in the room. They did not seem to understand his natural shyness regarding such matters, and Bilbo imposed rather heavily on Bofur. At least Bofur seemed to enjoy the chance to mock Bilbo instead of lecturing him about what an honor it was to wash his bottom. 

Even so, some things were intolerable. When he woke in the middle of the night with a painfully full bladder, Bilbo had no desire to call out and disturb one of his friends. Sure as he was that one of the Company would be within shouting distance, he rather hoped they were dozing. It would be the basest ingratitude to wake one of the dwarves who already did so much for him. Besides, Bilbo was quite done with having someone else watch while he relieved himself. In fact, he would be hard pressed to think of anything more mortifying. 

Sliding to the edge of the bed, Bilbo levered his body upright. Managing to balance on his own feet felt like a great victory. Toddling over to where he knew the chamber pot would be, the hobbit bent low, feeling around for it. He had absolutely no intention of relieving himself up against the wall like a drunkard. When he was quite certain that he was aimed and angled appropriately, he lifted his nightshirt and let fly. 

Oh, but it was glorious. One did not truly appreciate the tremendous appeal of privacy until one was forced to do without. Sighing happily, the hobbit listened to the gentle music of water falling into brass, like rain tinkling into a wheelbarrow during a summer storm. For a brief moment, all was right with the world. Then, Bilbo finished, and gave himself a little shake. 

Something about the movement off-balanced him. Perhaps it was only that standing for a full minute unaided was yet beyond his abilities. Either way, Bilbo’s knees buckled, and he went crashing to the ground, banging the now full chamber pot about, covering himself in his own urine. 

“Lu akradithu!” a dwarf exclaimed in Khuzdul. Bilbo did not understand the words, but if it was a curse, he quite agreed with the meaning. 

“Tell me that is you, Bofur,” the hobbit said, “or I shall die of embarrassment.” Gingerly touching a hand to his sodden nightshirt, Bilbo wrinkled his nose in distaste at the smell which now covered him. 

There was silence from the dwarf, and no one reached out to help him. Bilbo could hardly blame whichever of his friends it was. He likely made quite the picture: filthy and bruised by his own pride. 

“Please say something,” Bilbo said. Trying for a smile, he felt his face twist. Mortified tears stung his sightless eyes. “Who is there? I understand if the mess pushes the bounds of our friendship too far. Obviously, I would never want a descendant of the line of Durin to have to deal with something like this, and I am very happy to wait for you to fetch someone else if that’s you, Fili. But I cannot. My leg is bent rather painfully, and I do need—that is to say—” 

The silence continued for a brief second, and Bilbo was horrified to consider that actual royalty might, in fact, take a turn sitting outside of a wounded hobbit’s door in the darkest watches of the night. 

“Khaz,” the dwarf said gruffly. “Jus' Khaz. Let me help you up.” 

There was a heavy clink as the chamber pot was righted against the stone floor and a strong hand gripped Bilbo’s elbow tenderly. Khaz had a thick Iron Hills accent, but that didn’t necessarily make him trustworthy. For all Bilbo knew, the Stiffbeards that Thorin complained about had the same accent.

“Who are you?” Bilbo demanded, refusing to move despite knowing that any dwarf could move him easily by force, whether or not the hobbit was bedridden. “Why are none of my friends here?” 

“I’m Khaz,” the dwarf repeated. “Here on King’s Orders. The Company needed a rest, but none of them would willingly leave ye alone, so it's ma' turn. Ma' fault you’re on the floor. I dinna hear ye call for help.” 

“Oh.” The realization was a greater relief than urinating privately. “You’re hired help.” Bilbo relaxed completely, then realized what he’d said. “I am terribly sorry, how appallingly rude of me to be so blunt.”

“Tis a fair enough thing to say,” Khaz said. Bilbo could feel him shrug. “Can I help you up?” 

“Of course!” Giddy relief had Bilbo grinning like a loon. “But not to bed, I don’t think. There is a little wooden chair that my visitors use on occasion, and I ought to be able to manage there for a moment. If you would be so kind as to put a little water in the bathtub? I must certainly get cleaned up before getting back in bed.” 

“Right you are.” Khaz helped Bilbo to sit in the chair. “Dinna fall again. I’ll fetch some hot water from the cistern.” 

“As ordered,” Bilbo agreed, not bothering to contain his smile. It was so kind of Thorin to think of hiring someone on! Khaz was barely gone for five minutes before he was back, pouring a loud stream of steaming water into the nearby bathtub, but Bilbo had time enough to think up a long list of requests. 

“First,” the hobbit said politely, “I should be extremely grateful if you could help me out of this nightshirt. Then, please place the soap in the dish affixed to the right of the tub. A washcloth next to that would be very convenient. I shall clean up myself while you clean up the floor. If it is not too much trouble, when you are finished with that, I would like help scrubbing my back and my feet. It pains me to reach those places. I will also need a fresh nightshirt. I believe there is a spare one next to the bed.” 

Khaz snorted, lifting Bilbo easily and depositing him gently in the warm water of the bath. It only barely covered his thighs, but it was plenty to begin washing with. “Thought ye were shy about asking fer what ye need.” 

“Have no fear of that!” Bilbo said, finding the soap and washcloth just where he’d asked Khaz to place them. “One doesn’t like to impose, of course, but this is your job, after all.” 

Khaz didn’t say anything. 

“This is your job, isn’t it?” Bilbo stopped soaping up, freezing with trepidation. “You said Thorin hired you on. You are being paid, aren’t you?” 

“Ma' duty,” Khaz said. “Failed in it, though, didn't I? Yer all bruised up.” 

“Ah.” Bilbo went back to washing, merry once more. “Well, it is hardly your fault that I fell. I knew that I should call for help, I just didn’t like to inconvenience anyone.”

“Donna seem t' mind asking me.” Bilbo could hear the humor in Khaz’s voice. “Jus' let me empty this bucket out and wash ma' hands, then I’ll help.” 

The hobbit agreed to this plan happily. He’d always been considered a very liberal employer in the Shire, and a large part of that was allowing people to work as they cared to. One did not hire a gardener and then tell him how to garden. Well, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins did, but that was why her roses always wilted by midsummer. 

“Odd,” Khaz observed while washing Bilbo’s back with a steady, gentle hand. “Are all hobbits more comfortable with strangers? Lord Dori told' me that you could na’ bear to be aided in the bath.” 

“Don’t be silly, Khaz,” Bilbo chided. “You are hardly a stranger. If Thorin hired you, I am sure that you are the most trustworthy dwarf in the mountain. Recommended highly by his cousin as well, no doubt? Hm?”

“Lord Dain would vouch for me,” Khaz said slowly. “I dinna mean to suggest that ye be on yer guard. Gawn, the King’ll keep any as mean you harm far, far away. But, that dinna explain why ye would be easier with me than your mates.” 

“I suppose it does not.” Bilbo trailed a hand through the warm water, feeling it flow around his fingers. “One does not like to be a burden, you know. Perhaps you will not believe it, but for a little while there, I was quite an adventurer. I may have started my journey being less use than a sack of potatoes, but by the time we reached Mirkwood, I dare say I was as world-wise as any member of Thorin’s Company. Needing to be taken care of again. Well. It feels like going backward.” 

Khaz made a soft noise of disagreement and his hand stopped moving the washcloth across Bilbo’s back. 

Quickly, the hobbit waved a hand to forestall the obvious arguments. “I know, I know,” he said. “Dragonslayer, dwarvish honor, etcetera, etcetera. It is not logical; it is only how I feel. When I think about asking Dori to carry me from my bed to the bath, my heart tells me it is no different than when he carried me through the goblin tunnels beneath the Misty Mountains. Only, I should not need that from him anymore; for in the end, I made my way through those tunnels alone.” 

“But it’s a stone of a different color with me?” Khaz asked. 

“Of course it is,” Bilbo said. “You are not taking care of me out of an obligation. You chose to accept a job, and you can quit whenever you like. I have no qualms whatsoever about instructing you on the proper way to wash hobbit feet, even hairless ones. Dori is always much too gentle and not nearly particular enough about it.” 

Khaz’s deep chuckle reminded Bilbo of something, but before the hobbit could place it, there was a brush rubbing along the bottom of his foot and he had to give the promised instruction. 

Indeed, Khaz was a miracle. Over the following week, Bilbo was able to rely on his friends for only those things which an ill person ought to ask of their friends. Ori read to him and taught him the beginnings of dwarven runes. Dori set him up with some lovely soft yarn to crochet with, and they shared a little gossip. Bombur shared many a meal. Bofur shared some music. Fili took a turn about the sickroom with Bilbo in slow, toddling steps. Balin gave the hobbit a full accounting of the battle, including all of the most heroic feats. Even Thorin had a nice quiet visit wherein they discussed a few problems of state that were troubling the king. In that case, Bilbo was the one able to help his friend, and it gave him the greatest pleasure to do so. Not a single one of Bilbo’s friends had to bathe him or assist him with any of the more personal tasks that a hobbit ought to be able to handle on his own. 

Bofur seemed almost befuddled by this change in circumstance. For a moment, Bilbo thought he might be offended. “You’re sure you don’t want me to help you to a bath?” the toymaker offered in his gentle way. “It’ll be Dori if it isn’t me. Oin says regular baths are good for you, but you can hardly bathe alone in this room. Someone has to draw the water.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll bathe later.” 

“And who will help you?” Bofur pressed. 

In the darkness that surrounded him constantly now, Bilbo wished he could see his friend’s expression. He wanted to know if he was hurt, offended, or simply trying to help. Unfortunately, Bofur’s voice alone wasn’t quite enough to judge by. 

“Khaz, if you must know,” the hobbit said, blushing faintly. It was strange to admit he preferred the help of a relative stranger to a friend, especially when he knew it was not the dwarven way. 

Bofur was silent for a moment, and Bilbo worried that this preference was too much for his friend to cope with. Then the dwarf laughed. A bright, joyful sound filled the room. Bilbo smiled along for a few minutes, though he did not entirely understand the joke. 

“Aye, that’s alright then,” Bofur said, seeming to master himself though his voice was still full of mirth. “I ken your preference to be bathed by Khaz. Oh sure, hobbit propriety makes all the sense in the world if you put it that way.” 

“Well, I do not understand you at all,” Bilbo said, still smiling and blushing. It was impossible to be annoyed when his friend was so openly happy, but Bilbo knew that he was the butt of Bofur’s joke, whatever it might be. 

“No, no, of course you don’t.” Bofur giggled a bit more. “And you just go right along failing to understand my meaning for as long as you like.” A little of the laughter faded from Bofur’s voice, and the dwarf sounded very fond indeed as he added, “So long as you’re happy with the arrangement, the particulars needn’t concern your friends.” 

“I am happy with it,” Bilbo said, and he was. Despite how confusing Bofur’s reaction happened to be. 

Of course, as he considered the matter, the apparent hilarity of Khaz’s assistance nagged at Bilbo. He wondered why it should be so amusing that he preferred to be bathed by this dwarf over the others. Perhaps he was a great beauty. Perhaps he was the opposite, and that was what tickled Bofur’s fancy. Maybe he was a warrior of great renown like Dwalin, for he was nearly as taciturn as Balin’s brother. That would make sense, and it worried Bilbo so much that he needed to ask. 

That night, after they finished with Bilbo’s necessary ablutions, he hesitantly spoke up. “Khaz?” 

“Aye?” Khaz was always nearby throughout the night, but he tended to read while Bilbo slept. At least, Bilbo heard the shuffle of papers being put to the side when he spoke. Perhaps he was not a fighter after all.

There was no way to broach the subject politely, so the hobbit simply asked. “Are you a warrior, Khaz?” 

The dwarf was slow to respond. “Some might say so, ‘specially by hobbit standards,” he said. “If yer in danger, I’m handy enough.” 

“That is not quite what I mean,” Bilbo said. “I am sure that you are a very strong and honorable dwarf. I only wonder if, perhaps, this taking care of me business isn’t a bit below your dignity. If Thorin asked you to, well, stand guard over me or something and I misunderstood your job.” 

Khaz snorted. “Ma' duty is to help ye in any way ye require. I’ve cared for wounded folk before. Knew what to expect when I volunteered m’self, didn’t I? Gwan, yer a stroll through a diamond mine. No bandages. No potions. Jus’ needin’ help to stand and the like.” 

Bilbo smiled. “Oh, good. I was a bit concerned. My friend Bofur had a little laugh when I said I preferred your help bathing to his, but he has a very strange sense of humor sometimes. I just hoped it wasn’t because I was taking advantage of you in some way.” 

The dwarf was silent for so long that Bilbo began to fidget with his bed linen, smoothing the wrinkled sheets as best he could.

“Khaz?”

“Ithrikî.” Khaz’s Iron Hills accent seemed even thicker than usual, and Bilbo suspected the dwarf knew what Bofur found funny, even if the hobbit remained in the dark. Likely, he was not a great beauty, then. “I’ve said before tha’ it’s odd, ye wantin’ the help of a stranger instead of yer friends. I surely wouldna be ticked if ‘n ye preferred his aid.” 

“I am sorry to upset you,” the hobbit said quickly. “As I said, his sense of humor entirely inappropriate. Whatever it is that he finds funny is likely not worth a second thought from any reasonable person.” 

Upon hearing a gentle snort, Bilbo realized that Khaz was amused. Or at least no longer upset. He sighed with relief, and left the subject alone. 

“There is another matter that I was hoping to ask you about,” he said gently. 

“Aye. ‘S what I’m here for.” Khaz’s voice was firm, despite the lilt of the Iron Hills which softened his words. 

“Nothing so serious as that, not even so serious as the chamber pot.” Bilbo smiled, sure that he was facing Khaz in a natural way. “It is this.” Rising from his bed, Bilbo walked four steps to the long table set up against the wall there. His few clothes were carefully folded and arranged by type so that he could dress himself. Dori even sorted them by color so that he could attempt the sartorial precision that suited a Baggins without seeing himself. Laying hands on the mithril shirt was very easy. 

“Ah.” Uncharacteristic hesitation filled Khaz’s voice. “If ye have any questions about the meaning of the gift or our ways, ask the King. I canna keep secrets from Thorin Oakenshield. Don’ confide in me.” 

Bilbo laughed. “I told you it was nothing serious, Khaz. Secrets from Thorin! As though I have any. No, my question is a very simple one. And one that I have asked my friends often enough to no avail. I should like you to tell me what this shirt looks like.”

“Yer friends couldna tell you tha'?” Khaz sounded confused. 

“I would like to hear you tell me plainly. Do not explain the symbolism of this knotwork around the collar, as Ori did when I asked. Nor offer a rather alarming estimation of the value, which Gloin gave me, and I hope was greatly exaggerated. Just. What color is it? That’s all I want to know, really. Bofur said mithril, like that was an answer, but as far as I can tell that is only a kind of metal. Is it yellow, like gold? Gray? Blue? Balin gave me to understand that the metal is associated with Durin’s folk in some grand, historical way, and I know that blue is a color favored by that line.”

“It's na' blue,” Khaz said. “You have seen mithril, though you may na' ken it. King Thorin wears two mithril beads in his braids. Mithril is also called true silver, sometimes. The color is silver. The brightest silver. Silver that never dims or tarnishes.” Apparently the metal was beautiful enough to inspire a little poetry even from the taciturn Khaz. 

Bilbo smiled. “Thank you, Khaz.” The hobbit waddled back over to his bed. It was rather late at night, after all. It always was when Khaz was about.

“Ach,” the dwarf said in his thick brogue, “Ma' job, as ye say. Imagine, none of 'em thinking to tell ye the color of the thing. King Under the Mountain, na' even brainy enough to describe colors t' a blind hobbit.” 

“Hey, now!” The sharpness Bilbo tried to inject into his tone was quite spoiled by a large yawn. “I might be blind, and liberal, but I’ll hear no word against Thorin.” 

The dwarf was very quiet for a long while. Bilbo wondered if he had offended, or if Khaz was being childish and not speaking at all in response to such a command. But it was only Khaz being Khaz. The dwarf would not use two words when one would do, and he would not speak when he had nothing to say. After a pause of such length that the hobbit was almost asleep, Khaz said, “Then he will have to be worthy of your good opinion.” 

Bilbo made no answer to this strange speech. In fact, later he was not entirely sure the words were anything more than a dream.


	8. Taking Advantage

Thorin knew that he was doing wrong. He was behaving without honor. The initial lie might be excusable. When Bilbo was on the floor, covered in his own urine, looking as though he would rather be dead than found in such an ignominious way, Thorin realized his own presence would not be a comfort. So he lied, and became someone whose presence would be welcomed. The gratification Thorin received from being the one Bilbo relied upon was immaterial. What mattered was that the assistance of the invented Khaz soothed Bilbo as little else did.

As if to contradict this thought, Bilbo huffed in his sickbed, pummeled his pillow a little, and then sat up. The hour was odd: too soon for him to need the chamber-pot again, and too late to desire conversation. 

“Believe it or not, Khaz, I’m having trouble sleeping. Would you be so kind as to fetch me some warm milk with just a touch of cinnamon, provided it is not too inconvenient? If it cannot be done, tea is acceptable.” 

And that was why the lie must continue. Bilbo did not ask for things. Only that morning he’d gone without three of his normal meals because Bombur was called away and no one else realized that the amiable cook did not bring Bilbo the elaborate repasts which were his usual offerings to the hero. Apparently, the hobbit wondered aloud if they were skipping second breakfast entirely sometime in the midafternoon. At that point, the dwarves realized that all the invalid had eaten so far was tea and biscuits with Dori during the meal Bilbo would call elevenses. 

They made up for it. Thorin didn’t even shout when Balin informed him of the error. If the fault lay with anyone, it lay with Bilbo. The hobbit would not ask for anything, only hint. Accustomed to political dealings with obfuscating races like elves and men, Thorin had a good chance of understanding him. Similarly educated, Balin was sometimes able to pick up on Bilbo’s verbal quirks as well. The rest of the Company simply could not. It was likely that Bilbo hinted several times about wanting food during the course of the day, and that the attentive, eager to please dwarves had no idea the little fellow was hungry. 

Yet he would give a direct, if politely phrased, order to someone he viewed as a servant. What else could Thorin do? Hire an actual servant? Some unknown Stiffbeard assassin to touch Bilbo while the hobbit was weak and bedridden? It was impossible. Better that Bilbo simply believe the king to be one.

Grunting an acknowledgement, Thorin put the reports he was reviewing aside and went to fetch the requested beverage. 

As always, when he first stepped out of the sickroom, Thorin’s eyes were drawn to the treasure. Now that the corpse of Smaug was gone, along with cartloads of the coin, the mountains of gold were slightly diminished. Such a thing was difficult to notice at first glance, however, for the hoard still gleamed bright with promise. Scrabbling about on one of the mounds, two scribes were hard at work cataloging interesting pieces. The treasure would be evenly divided among his company, as promised, but there was time enough for that. Everyone was curious about the provenance of the finest crafts, and the historians were delighted by the opportunity to work. 

Smiling a little, Thorin turned to nearer treasures. All of the needful things which could not fit in Bilbo’s sickroom were arrayed neatly near the entrance. Milk was easily found in the little icebox. Cinnamon was more difficult. Bombur had many spices, well labeled in a neat rack, but the order made no sense to Thorin. It was certainly not alphabetical. The labels were in Sindarin, Khuzdul, or Westron, depending on who Bombur acquired the spice from, and simply could not be organized by any reasonable linguistic standard. Fortunately, sticks of cinnamon were recognizable enough as Thorin scanned the contents of the glass containers. He fished one out, put it into a saucepan with the milk, and began to warm it over the smokeless stove. 

While he arranged the cup and saucer on a small tray, Thorin eyed the curses scrawled around the outer edge of the cookie jar. Some of them were quite deadly. Clearly, Bombur was very serious about the treats within being for Bilbo’s enjoyment alone. Thorin decided not to risk those, and instead filched a few of the currant scones from the breadbox. 

Behind the king, the working scribes pulled a large silvered mirror from the treasure, exclaiming over the thing. It was larger than the two of them together, and Thorin recognized it vaguely as an heirloom of the Line of Durin. Pulling it out of the hoard caused a minor cascade. Gold coins slid down the side of the pile with an almost musical cacophony. In truth, the disturbance was on the other side the vast treasure room, well away from Bilbo’s things, but the collapse of one pile was enough to upset others. 

A single coin bounced on its side and rolled out from the rest of the treasure hoard, knocking into Thorin’s boot before falling to the ground with a little jingle. Scowling, the king kicked it back toward the pile. Better rooms for Bilbo were almost ready. Soon he would not need to tolerate such disturbances. 

Stirring the milk with the cinnamon stick kept it from developing a skin, and it was soon warm enough. Thorin poured it into the teacup, squaring the tray so that the desired beverage was precisely in the center with the plate of scones exactly a hand-breadth to the left. Then he returned to Bilbo. 

The hobbit was still sitting up in bed, his hand tracing over one of the runestones left to him by Ori. It was a classic poem, one Thorin recognized on sight. Bilbo’s hand hesitated on the fourth line, tracing it again and again. Clearly, he did not remember, or did not know, one of the runes in the sequence. Steeling himself, Thorin did not offer to help. Khaz could not engage in scholarly discussions or befriend Bilbo. 

“What was that noise before?” The hobbit asked, once he accepted the tray and politely thanked Khaz for delivering it. 

“Ach, those old scholars found a right hefty seeing glass in the hoard,” Thorin said, mimicking Dain’s mode of speech as closely as he could. “I’ll ask them to leave off to morning.” 

“Oh, please don’t trouble them. It wasn’t loud enough to wake me if I’d actually been asleep, and in the ordinary course of events I don’t hear their movements at all. Besides, it does my heart good to remember that those treasures are your history, as worthy of study as any book, and not simply mathoms.” 

“Aye.” Nevertheless, Thorin shut the door firmly so that the hobbit’s rest would not be interrupted further. As Bilbo settled in with his tray, the king resumed his seat in the corner, returning to the speculators estimates regarding the proposal to reopen one of the gold mines. 

Bilbo sipped his milk, leaning back against his pillows. “I say, that is absolutely perfect. You might just be the best cook of my acquaintance, Khaz.”

Thorin’s heart leapt at the compliment, and he was immediately annoyed. It was not praise for Thorin Oakenshield and would not increase Bilbo’s estimation of him. The dwarf grunted in acknowledgement. 

Without taking this lack of response to heart, Bilbo started in on his scones, humming thoughtfully. “These are lovely as well, of course. I suspect Bombur uses buttermilk for them, and to great effect.” 

“If ye wan’ a visitor, I’ll go an’ fetch ‘un,” Thorin said. Bilbo could not grow attached to Khaz. The king was resolved not to maintain the farce once the hobbit no longer required constant care. Mostly because Bilbo, not being an idiot, would be furious if he ever comprehended the extent of Thorin’s deception. But also because the dishonor of lying to do anything more than serve Bilbo in his time of need was too great for any dwarf to bear. Better that Thorin should go and ‘fetch’ himself for Bilbo to converse with than that the hobbit develop any real affection for the invented Khaz. 

“No, no,” the hobbit waved a hand dismissively. “The milk is helping. I expect I shall be able to drop off soon enough, but thank you, Khaz.” 

Grunting again, Thorin returned to his work. Or he tried. Bilbo looked so relaxed. When he sat with the king, the hobbit always wanted to talk and entertain. It was better, being simply Khaz.

Thorin was careful not to take advantage of his position by touching Bilbo. There was nothing prurient in his gaze while Bilbo bathed or when the hobbit relieved himself. Such things were a medical necessity, and no dwarf of honor would impose on a friend who needed aid. Yet Bilbo was only eating in bed, and he looked so very well. White milk stained his upper lip for just a moment before the hobbit licked it away in a sweet, unconscious gesture. Never were any lips as meant to be kissed as those of Bilbo Baggins. 

Catching himself, Thorin turned his gaze sternly toward his papers once more. Bilbo deserved as much privacy as he could be given. Thorin would not stare like a dwarfling seeing a jewel for the first time. 

“May I ask you something?” 

Restraining a sigh, the king looked at his friend. Bilbo’s teacup was nearly empty and the scones reduced to crumbs on the plate. The hobbit’s face was flushed slightly in a manner that usually indicated a request he found embarrassing, like assistance with the chamber pot, so there was only one possible response. “Always.”

“Ah, I was wondering, just an idle curiosity of mine, you understand, but I worry it would cause speculation among my friends if I were to mention it, and well.” 

“Out with it. Sir.” 

Bilbo laughed, looking suddenly much more at ease. “Does the king wear a crown now that the mountain is retaken?”

Thorin’s heart stopped. He could not move or breathe. After a moment, he managed to say, “Aye,” but his voice was harsh and broken in his own ears. 

“Oh good.” Bilbo’s face was bright red and his hand rubbed the stubble of his scalp absently. “I did wonder. Is it gold? Pointy, like a circlet with all triangles a the top, or is it more of a helm? I am sure it looks nothing like Thranduil’s crown, and to be perfectly honest, that is the only crown I have ever seen outside of a book, unless you count those circlets that some of the Rivendell elves wear. I do not think either style would suit Thorin’s features. Though he is handsome enough no matter what adornments he chooses, I’m sure.” 

Handsome. Bilbo thought him handsome. 

“Bilbo.” Thorin made no effort to disguise his voice, and the hobbit froze. 

“Khaz? You sound strange.” 

“Perhaps it is guilt which colors my tone,” Thorin said. “Oh, Bilbo! I have behaved dishonorably. I thought there was no harm in it. Indeed, I hoped there was some good. For I could never trust any but the Company near you while you were so weak, and yet you were so much more comfortable with a stranger than a friend. Please understand. A deception seemed the best solution.” 

“It was you from the first.” The hobbit’s little face was scarlet, yet Thorin did not think embarrassment colored it now. “You have always been Khaz.” 

This was not a question, so Thorin did not answer. Instead, he tried to defend his actions. “I did tell you that I could keep nothing from Thorin Oakenshield. It was never my intention to ferret out your secrets or engender a confidence. I did not do this to spy.” 

“Get out.” Bilbo’s voice was low and dangerous. Without seeing Thorin, the hobbit seemed to sense the king’s hesitation. “Get out!” he shrieked, hurling his teacup across the room. Blind or not, Bilbo’s aim when throwing was always admirable. The cup struck Thorin hard in the shoulder and he failed to catch it. When it fell to the floor, the porcelain shattered into a hundred pieces, never to be reassembled. 

“As you wish,” Thorin said. The minor pain of being hit with a teacup faded from his shoulder before he finished speaking, but the king was deeply wounded even so. 

That was no fault of Bilbo’s. 

Thorin left.


	9. A Hobbit Hole in the Mountain

Balin was the one who came to clean up the broken teacup. Bilbo was still seething in his bed, but he knew Balin by the tapping rhythm of his knock, the smooth cadence of his step, and the scent of pipeweed, velvet, and old papers. How had he not known Thorin? There was nothing more distinctive than Thorin’s laugh. Khaz, too, smelled like embers, incense, and steel. No dwarf but Thorin had such a smooth, measured stride. If Bilbo had been thinking at all, there was no way the dwarves could have deceived him so. 

Friends did not willfully deceive each other. That was his only excuse. Bilbo had not been looking for lies. Yet lies were told, so it must be that Bilbo had no friends at all. Then it occurred to him that perhaps Thorin was the only one to lie, and somehow that was even worse. 

“Isn’t this a bit below your dignity?” he snapped at Balin. 

The dwarf sounded a little surprised to be addressed so rudely. As well he might, while doing Bilbo a favor, but the hobbit did not feel the slightest pang of guilt. “I’m always happy to help when you need me, Bilbo, you know that.” 

“I mean,” Bilbo said, anger coloring his tone quite fiercely, “Why would Thorin get you out of bed in the middle of the night? Surely some other dwarf might be found for the job. I happen to know there are several scribes working through the night in the treasure chambers just outside that door. Thorin might have asked one of them to help.” 

“Ah.” The mattress beneath Bilbo sank slightly as Balin took a seat at the foot of the bed. “Is that what you and Thorin fought about? He knows that he cannot keep you locked in here away from harm forever. You are not a prisoner, Bilbo. But while you are weak, he will trust your safety to no one but the Company.”

“And no one thought to mention that to me?”

Balin paused, “Surely you did not notice just now that the only visitors you have had beyond the Company were Thranduil and Dain, neither of whom Thorin left alone with you.” 

Furious, Bilbo could not find words to speak of Thorin’s long deception. Instead, he said, “I should like to speak to Gandalf as soon as possible.” 

A warm hand touched Bilbo’s arm. “Of course, but it may take a little time. He left the mountain on some business of his own, as you know, and tracking a wizard down is never easy. Is there anything that I can do for you in his stead.” 

“I wish to go home,” Bilbo said firmly. “He promised to take me once I could walk unaided, and I can now.” 

Balin’s gentle hand gripped Bilbo, then relaxed once more into a light touch. “I see. Well. If you do not care to wait for the wizard, my brother and I will see you back to the Shire at any time you choose. After all, that is the least we can do for a friend. Indeed, though I will not speak for the others, I suspect most of the Company will join us.” 

An emotion other than rage entered Bilbo’s heart then, and the hobbit found he could not speak around the lump forming in his throat. Finally, he said, “But you have all only just made it home yourselves. Such a journey would be dreadfully inconvenient.” 

Balin’s laugh was very light, but it shattered the remnants of Bilbo’s anger like a hammer. “Fear not. The Shire is hardly out of our way. After all, we must pass into the west to reach the Blue Mountains, and most of us have kinfolk there that must be escorted to Erebor. Though you may set the date of our departure, doubt not that we would be departing come spring in any case.” 

“Oh,” Bilbo said, feeling very childish. “You are too kind. Thank you.” 

“May I ask a favor in turn?” 

“Naturally.” After being shown such courtesy by his friend, the hobbit rediscovered his own manners. In fact, he was quite ashamed of his earlier outburst. Angry as he was with Thorin, Bilbo had no reason to vent his spleen on the rest of his friends. “I am entirely at your service, Balin, as I hope you know.” 

Although he could not see Balin’s smile, Bilbo heard it in the dwarf’s voice, and he remembered the way those bright eyes twinkled when he was pleased. “Promise me not to decide that date based on your feelings about Thorin. My king is an inspiring figure, and he inspires anger and awe in equal measure, as I well know. I do not think it would be wise for you to stay in Erebor only to bask in his pleasure, nor to leave when you are both in a temper.” 

Duly chastened, Bilbo wanted to promise, but something about Balin’s words stopped him. “He is in a temper with me? The nerve! As though I have done anything except catch him in a lie!” 

“Peace,” Balin said quickly. “I do not know whether his anger is directed at you or himself, only that he was displeased when he asked me to come to your aid this night.” 

Feeling more juvenile than ever, Bilbo sniffed. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help being slightly mollified by this. “Very well,” he said. “I promise.” 

“Now,” Balin said, “Since we are both awake, I wonder if you have any further thoughts on that trade agreement with Mirkwood that I mentioned earlier. Thranduil continues to insist that it must be written in Sindarin as well as Westron to be enacted as law, and the translation of the third clause is wholly unsatisfying.”

“Yes, of course,” Bilbo said. And so they were able to talk about verb forms and vegetables until the hobbit drifted off, leaving all thoughts of Thorin behind. 

The following morning, Bilbo got out of bed, dressed himself, and informed Dori politely but firmly that he was going for a walk. Somewhat surprisingly, the protective dwarf didn’t try to stop him. Instead, Dori offered the hobbit a lightweight walking stick and his arm. To leave the sickroom and go anywhere of note, they would have to cross the sliding coins which were still piled high above the treasure room floor. 

“May I be permitted to carry you?” Dori offered quietly as Bilbo tripped along, leaning heavily on his stick each time he almost fell. 

“No thank you,” Bilbo said. Then, because that was too much of a sting for such a faithful friend, the hobbit asked where Dori consistently acquired such interesting teas. The topic saw them through the worst of the climb up a particularly steep stack of coins. 

As they walked, the hobbit realized that his anger with Thorin caused only part of his discomfort. The rest was the gold. Walking on shifting, sliding gold coins was not like walking on sand, gravel, or any other surface, really. It was a sensation Bilbo only ever experienced once before. His heart told him that he would encounter a dragon at any moment. Just when the fear almost overcame him, Dori put a second hand on his arm. He was not alone. He would never again face a dragon alone. 

Bilbo stopped walking for a moment so that he could prop his stick under one arm and pat Dori’s hands. “Tricking you lot into being my friends is the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” he said. “I’m really very proud of myself for thinking of it.” 

Dori’s laugh was a dignified chuckled that suited him well, and the pair continued on. After a solid half hour of wading through the coins, they reached a flat stretch of hallway. Dori described it for Bilbo, and the hobbit found that he could sense the nature of the place easily. 

As a rule, hobbits do not delve so deeply within the earth as dwarves, but they do live underground and are well accustomed to tunnels and such. Bilbo knew that he was under the earth from the temperature and the cool scent of rock around him. He knew that the ceiling was high above—like the one at Great Smials or Brandy Hall, and not only a little way up like the one at Bag End—from the way the air moved. Smooth stone under his feet and the regular clack of his walking stick against the wall was enough to let him know that it was paved in an orderly dwarven style. Indeed, all he learned from Dori that he could not learn for himself was how far the tunnel stretched out before them, and that the ceiling vaulted in an arch indicative of the architecture of the early Third Age and the reign of Thrain I. 

That was very interesting, and the hobbit would have been happy to continue along such a line of conversation, but Dori said, “Oh, it’s not my area. I only know as much because Ori will remark on it. If it’s history you want, you have the wrong brother.” 

So they talked about tea, books, and small comforts. Even walking at a leisurely pace, all roads eventually lead somewhere, and Bilbo began to hear the bustling sound of many people further on. 

“Shall we head back?” Dori offered. 

“Are those Thorin’s orders?” Bilbo asked sharply. 

Dori paused. “The king has given no orders about the length of walks you might take, Bilbo. Indeed, I would be far more inclined to trust Oin’s opinion, and he told us that you should be allowed as much exercise as you felt inclined to do. Only, by my watch it is a quarter to eleven o’clock, and you missed your second breakfast. At our current pace, it will be lunchtime before we make it back to your room.” 

“Ah.” Such considerations were imminently sensible, yet Bilbo loathed the idea of turning back. He did not want to feel coins between his toes ever again. “What is up ahead?” he asked. 

“Ah, well.” Dori hesitated. “We’re getting a bit close to the Great Marketplace, actually. Don’t let the name fool you. It’s rather rough and tumble at the moment, with hardly anything worth buying. A few merchants manage to make their way from the Iron Hills and elsewhere every so often, but mostly it’s just good solid camp gear. With a few sundries brought in by Stiffbeards who overcharge. Everyone wants Ereborian gold, of course, but it’s midwinter. There’s not the kind of choice you’ll find come summer when things really get going.” 

“Of course,” Bilbo said. “I understand completely. Thorin wouldn’t like us to go. And there are those Stiffbeard merchants. He’s made it clear he does not trust them.” 

Dori hesitated again. 

“I’ll make it easy, shall I?” the hobbit added tersely. “I am going. You may come along if you like. Thorin can go hang.” Then he stomped forward, as best he could. Hobbits can barely manage a good stomp in the best of times, since their footfalls tend toward the absolutely silent. A blind hobbit, who needs to feel the way with his walking stick, simply cannot build up the reckless inertia that a proper stomp requires. But Bilbo tried. 

Beneath his feet, the road changed slightly, from the big smooth blocks of the long hall to something more like cobblestones. That did not make stomping any easier. Nor did his walking stick swing, though it did ring a bit more, as though some of the cobblestones were metal, not the simple river rocks which paved the streets of Hobbiton. 

Dori caught up with him after only a few steps. “No harm in a little outing, I always say.” The dwarf’s voice was confident, as though he didn’t really mind continuing on, but he leaned in to take Bilbo’s arm. “Do stick close to me, though, if you please.” 

It was a pleasant enough way to walk, and as they approached the marketplace, Bilbo was willing to concede the necessity. The cacophony of dwarven voices filled his ears long before Dori began describing stalls and storefronts to him. He heard cartwheels, tramping boots on stone, the clip of goat hooves on the same, and the ringing of coins as well as hammers, but most of all he heard voices. Haggling was a favorite pastime for all dwarven merchants, and that was not nearly so loud as those shouting out to hawk their wares. One particularly booming voice promised, “Repairs while you wait! No more’n an hour! We can’t do it in an hour, the whole job’s free!” 

“What are they repairing?” Bilbo asked curiously, interrupting Dori’s description of the broad avenue lined with shops and interspersed with stalls. 

“Ah, who do you mean?” From the hand on his arm, Bilbo could feel Dori turning to look about, and he smiled.

“The fellow who promises to take no more than an hour.”

“Ah! That’s one of the armorers. We’ve had a few others trickle in from the Iron Hills, and soon enough our folk will come up from the Blue Mountains, but for the most part, all of the dwarves in Erebor were soldiers in the Battle of Five Armies. So for the most part, everyone has a bit of armor that could do with a few repairs. I’d say half the stalls here are armorers or blacksmiths, though it’s many a soldier who can do that sort of thing for themself if they have the tools.”

Bilbo chuckled. “Well, in that case, I am not surprised that you believed this place would be of little interest to me. I don’t suppose there’s a fruit shop?” 

Dori patted his arm. “There is an inn just here. Hearty stews, crusty bread, and dwarven beer for the asking, if you’re hungry. Although it is probably not as nice as what Bombur has for you, if we turn back.” 

Sniffing the air, Bilbo detected rather more grease and gristle than one would wish for in a stew and politely demurred. You never need to visit the first inn you happen across in a marketplace. In a marketplace, there are bound to be other options. Happily, the dwarf did not press. Leading him on, Dori began to tell Bilbo all about the rather limited selection of textiles available. It did seem to be a rather bleak situation, but Dori knew a good yarn merchant who didn’t overcharge too much despite the scarcity of his goods. 

As the dwarf continued talking, his voice faded into the background and another scent captured Bilbo’s attention. This was not the smell of hundreds of hardworking dwarves walking past. Nor was it the scent of goats who bathed even less frequently and occasionally did what goats would do in the middle of a public avenue. No, this was a very pleasing aroma, which teased Bilbo’s nose like a comic drawing in a children’s book. Although he was unable to see, he imagined it like a visible trail, leading through the marketplace. 

“This way,” he said firmly, tugging Dori’s arm gently. 

Naturally, the cautious dwarf hesitated to follow a blind hobbit’s lead. “Ah, Bilbo, my friend, I am very sorry to say that this is not the way to my friend the yarn merchant.”

Bilbo patted his arm. “Do forgive me, Dori. May we not visit your friend’s shop in a short while? Only I rather think this brief detour will be quite rewarding. If it is not worth your time, I promise to go back to my sick room at once like a good little invalid.” 

Dori shrugged. Bilbo could feel it in the way his arm moved. 

“Lead the way, then,” the dwarf said. And so Bilbo did. Following his nose and making sure to test the ground in front of them, with his stick, the little hobbit strode confidently through the busy marketplace. The pair must have made quite a sight, with a blind fellow leading someone dressed in the sort of sartorial finery that Dori favored. In fact, it wasn’t long before Bilbo started to catch the gossipers at work. 

“That’s Lord Dori, that is.”

“—must be the Dragonslayer.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ve never seen a halfling before. My cousin says—”

“Blind as a bat, you know.”

“—be taller. Looks like a babe, all pink and hairless.”

“You should give it to him. I’m sure he’d be gracious—”

“The Stiffbeards say he’s some sort of spirit. Not of this world.”

“Bimbo. Didn’t you hear the king’s battle cry? No mistaking it. Definitely Bimbo.”

“Well, let’s follow, then. If they are going to the Hammer ‘n Tongs, we can spot him a pint. The Dragonslayer. D’you know—” 

“I thought he’d be shorter. Practically of a height with Lord Dori.” 

“—an embarrassment. Look at Lord Dori’s clothes. And that’s the best that they give the Dragonslayer? No gold at all. Ought to have a few earrings at least, I say, even if his hair is too short for—” 

Smiling to himself, Bilbo let Dori lead him around a clothier’s street display before correcting the dwarf’s direction back toward the wonderful smell. 

“Where are we going?” the polite fellow asked finally. Bilbo was impressed by his patience. Well bred or not, the Baggins would have demanded an explanation much sooner in the walk. Fortunately, the timing worked out perfectly. 

“Here,” Bilbo declared, executing a perfect right turn and waving his walking stick to show Dori their final destination. 

A long moment passed. Despite the noise of the street, everything seemed very quiet suddenly. Finally, Dori said, “Ah, Bilbo? This is a stone wall. There’s nothing here.” 

“Oh.” Sheepishly, Bilbo turned them around to face the opposite direction. “Here?” he said hopefully. “If not, then somewhere very nearby.” 

Dori laughed. “Here, indeed. I see your destination now, Bilbo, and smell it, though I am amazed that you could from so far away.” Stepping forward smartly, the dwarf placed their order. “Two, please.” 

“You’re Lord Dori,” said an astonished voice. It sounded young, and, unless Bilbo was mistaken, feminine. 

“Indeed I am, my good dwarf,” Dori said. “This is my friend, Master Baggins. Might I be privileged to know your name? And the name of your fine establishment, if it has one.” 

“Master Dragonslayer, I think you mean!” Definitely young, and rather excitable. “Sorry, sir. I’m Zindi, daughter of Zani, at your service, sir. My cart doesn’t have a name. Begging your pardon, sir. It’s only a cart. But here you are. At my cart! Two, you said? Oh, no charge, sir. Not to the Dragonslayer.” 

This prospect made Bilbo rather uncomfortable, but he couldn’t rightly insist since he was relying on Dori for the actual purchase. Although he was one of the fourteen wealthiest people in the mountain, presumably, Bilbo didn’t actually have a coin purse with him. So he could not press money on the vendor. 

Fortunately, Dori held a similar sentiment when it came to taking advantage of young entrepreneurs just starting out in their business. “That is kind of you, thank you dearie. So that’s one free to Bilbo, and I’ll buy three for myself. I’m sure these are very filling, but we forgot to bring proper provisions along on this walk of ours. I need to build up my strength to keep up with the hero.” 

Zindi laughed, and Bilbo lost Dori’s arm. A few coins clinked and the wonderful smell was suddenly appetizingly close. One free in a batch of four was still a very good deal, but at least there was likely some small profit for the lass in the bargain. 

“There’s a little bench just here, Bilbo,” Dori said. 

“Indeed there is, sirs. Original stonework from before the dragon, or so I’m told. That’s why I set up my cart here. You wouldn’t be my first customers to enjoy a bit of a sit and a place to put your shopping while you eat.” 

Bilbo smiled at Zindi. It was a little tricky to feel his way over to the bench with his walking stick and his hand, but the hobbit was grateful that the dwarves let him do it without fussing. Though perhaps it was not mere deference to his feelings, for Dori obviously had his hands full, and Zindi suddenly had a rush of other customers.

“Apparently he smelled it all the way from the other side of the market.”

“They say hobbits are very knowledgeable about food.” 

“Must be worth trying if—”

“—just as strange as the Stiffbeards say.” 

“Well, if they’re good enough for the Dragonslayer, they’re good enough for me!”

“Six please! I’m headed back to my mates. Do you have anything I can carry them with?”

Once Bilbo was seated with his walking stick propped up against his leg, Dori handed him a warm pastry wrapped in a napkin. Sniffing it deeply, Bilbo sighed. His mouth watered. “Ah,” he said. “Nothing like a meat pie from a market stand. They are meat pies, aren’t they? Could be dumplings, I thought at first, but the crust smells—” 

“Very fine meat pies indeed,” Dori said, after a quick swallow. “Hot, though, so do take care.” 

Lifting the steaming pie to his lips, Bilbo took a slow bite. Buttery crust flaked away under his teeth, dissolving on his tongue. Steam tickled his nose and a hint of gravy teased him dreadfully, but he was not a fauntling. He waited, anticipating all of the delicious things he could smell: well cooked meat, cumin, fennel, onion, garlic, and a dozen other spices. Finally, he gave in to temptation. Piping hot, the pie filled his mouth with the familiar flavors of salt, grease, and so much good gravy. 

Bilbo devoured it neatly in less than a minute and tapped Dori’s arm for another, which was instantly supplied. 

A hobbit’s hunger was never wholly absent. Even after a proper all day feast, there were always a few corners that wanted filling in. There was always room for some tidbit, if it tasted nice or was a particular favorite. Still, the most urgent part of the demand could be met somewhat, and two pies just about did the trick. Bilbo lingered over the third happily. 

“Nothing like a good meat pie,” he said cheerfully, taking a bite of the nicely cooled pastry. “I feel like I’ve been wanting a meat pie for two years together. You just can’t make them properly at home, you know. Not a real hand pie. It’s not the same. Has to come from a marketplace or a Free Fair after you’ve been walking around a bit. Why, it’s the third most important thing you can get at a market, now I come to think of it.” 

Chuckling politely, Dori took the bait. “And what are the other two important things for which a hobbit visits the market?” 

“News and gossip,” Bilbo said at once. “Though it can be hard to tell the difference, of course. All in all, one is safest with the meat pie. Still, if that’s your brother Nori’s new cologne I smell, wave him over. We’ll see if we can’t get a bit of the others.” 

There was a rustle of fabric just barely audible over the din of the marketplace, and Bilbo imagined Dori looking around quickly. Then the dwarf said, “And what are you doing lurking over there?” 

Nori sauntered over with his light footed swagger, not nearly as noisy as the tramp of other dwarves. “Looking for you, brother,” he said smoothly. “It’s been hours since the pair of you went out for a walk, and I missed the dulcet tones of your constant nagging.” 

Bilbo laughed. “How did you find us?” 

“Just asked myself where I could find the best snack and headed for it,” Nori said easily. “To be honest, this is my third stop. Checked the royal kitchens first, then that tea shop over on Goldbrick Lane. I know Dori likes it.” 

Considering the idea thoughtfully, Bilbo said, “Well, unless you would like a meat pie as well, perhaps we ought to adjourn to—”

“A proper pub?” Nori suggested quickly. “I want chips and a drink that a dwarf can actually taste.” 

Dori sniffed. “You have no appreciation for the finer things, brother of mine. Anyway, I’m sure Bilbo was about to suggest returning to his rooms. It’s been a long walk, and I’m certain that our hobbit would like a rest.” 

“Actually, a pub sounds lovely,” Bilbo said brightly. “Only mind you choose one with good beer, Nori. I haven’t had a proper half-pint since Laketown, and that has to be months ago now.”

“I know just the place,” Nori said, waiting patiently for Bilbo to rise on his own and gather his cane. The moment he was standing, however, the dwarf grabbed the hobbit’s arm and whisked him off down the path at a much less sedate pace than Dori’s. 

“You’re heading for the Silver Shield?” Dori asked. 

“Nah, I thought the Hammer and Tongs would be Bilbo’s kind of place.”

 

“Nori.” Bilbo didn’t need to look at Dori’s face to hear how annoyed he was, but he imagined that Nori—who could see the mighty little dwarf’s expression—got the picture. 

“Course I’m taking him to the Silver Shield, Dori. It’s got the best beer under the mountain. Give me some credit for taste.” 

“Very well then.” Dori’s voice was full of the usual easy politeness, and he seemed molified by the choice of pub. “I shall meet you there in an hour or so.”

“Oh!” Bilbo was so angry with Thorin, it hadn’t even occurred to him that deviating from his usual activities might inconvenience Dori. Of course the dwarf had other things to do with his time. After all, he would not have spent the whole of his morning in Bilbo’s sick room. Usually they would take tea and biscuits together for an hour or so before some other visitor came around. 

Bilbo released Nori’s arm and turned in the direction of Dori’s voice. Tucking his walking stick in the crook of his left elbow, he offered his right hand to the air. It was immediately grasped in a firm dwarven handshake. “Thank you very much for coming along on my little adventure, Dori.”

Suddenly, there was a tug on his hand and a warm forehead pressed against his own. Then Dori stepped away, and the cool, cavernous air of the mountain filled the distance between them. 

“Forgive the liberty,” the dwarf said, very politely, “but I would take it as a kindness to be included in all of your adventures, Master Baggins.” 

Smiling very softly, Bilbo gave Dori a wave and a nod. “In that case, I’ll see you later my friend.” Then his arm was taken up once more by Nori, and they were off to the pub.

Walking with Nori was very different from walking with Dori. There was certainly no stream of polite chatter about the shops and their various wares. Nori bounced along with barely contained energy, and he was far more concerned with the streets and avenues themselves. 

“Right here, on Shaleblock Road. Don’t know if you can feel the difference under your feet, but it’s a nice, wide boulevard, all shale. Very easy on the cart wheels, so of course it’s full of them. I’d recommend keeping to one side, though no one goes too fast. Still, you can’t count on some of these blighters to stop for anyone. That bastard with a mangy old billy near just ran a child over.”

“Oh dear! Should we see if they’re alright?”

“Nah. Little wastrel’s fine. Tugging at his mum’s vambraces and beggin’ for sweets already. Anyway, this is our turning. Left onto Quartzcobble Lane. Feel ‘em? They just finished repaving it. Blasted dragon tore the whole thing up, along with Goldbrick and any other street with a bit of shine to it. I mean, Goldbrick I can understand, but quartz isn’t worth anything. It was all clear stones before, when I was a kid. Used to shine like diamonds, so maybe that’s why. Almost like it better now, with a bit of rose quartz mixed in. Gives the place some personality.”

“Do you mean to say that there’s actually a street paved with gold somewhere in this marketplace?” 

“Course! Don’t know how you hobbits ever find your way around in the Shire, where all the roads look the same and are paved with the same stuff. Goldbrick is mostly an alloy, of course, not what you’d call pure gold. It’d be all dinged up by the first cartwheel to drive down it, if it was pure gold. Even so, no one without a storefront is allowed to drive a cart along it. Very posh address. That’s why Dori takes his tea there. They barely let us walk down it in the old days. Now we could buy and sell the whole street if we had a mind. And Dori does. He’s landlord to half the block. Not my idea of a sound investment. Too much overhead. But he likes the respectability. Tied up more than half his share of the treasure right away, building it back up and finding tenants and everything. Another left here.” 

“Onto Marbleslab Road?” Bilbo guessed, feeling the smooth, polished stone beneath his feet. 

“Close!” Nori said. “Graniteblock Road. You’ve got the convention down, though. The big roads are blocks of something tough and smooth, not little bricks or cobbles. Best to keep to the side because of all the carts. Mostly we call them blocks, not slabs. Not sure why. Sounds better, I suppose. Good guess on the marble, too. Even a dwarf would have trouble telling the difference between polished granite and polished marble by touch, especially when the street sweepers buff it twice a month. Anyway, here we are! Corner of Graniteblock and Obsidian Alley.” 

“Just Obsidian?” Bilbo was slightly surprised by that. 

“Give it a step,” Nori said. 

A certain smugness, hidden in the dwarf’s voice, advised the hobbit to be very careful indeed as he stepped forward onto the slickest surface he’d ever had occasion to walk on. Even with his stick, Bilbo almost fell. Quickly retreating to the sturdy granite blocks, he said, “It’s like walking on ice!” 

Nori laughed. “If you could see it, you might call it beautiful. The whole thing is a perfect stretch of obsidian. Shatters so easily, obsidian does, that they say it was the find of a lifetime, back when it was lain. Course, no one thought about what kind of a street it would make, and now it’s been here so long that no one wants to get rid of it. Survived Smaug. Practically a historical landmark. Doesn’t matter that you can’t take a cart down it without crashing the thing at the other end, or that half the pedestrians end up on their asses at some point.”

Bilbo laughed too. “Not the address I’d choose for a pub.” 

“Ah, well. Had to take what he could get, didn’t he? Gendor, I mean, the owner. Wasn’t one of the soldiers who set up shop instead of leaving with Dain. They got first pick of locations, obviously. That’s how Dori was able to rebuild almost half a street alone.”

“Alone?” 

Nori snickered. “Hiring help. Obviously. Dori’s strong, but even he can’t raise ten buildings in two months on his own. Come on. There’s two steps up to the door. Dwarf sized, not hobbit sized.” 

Bilbo appreciated the warning, and didn’t bother to correct Nori. No reputable hobbit pub would have steps of any size. Even so, he was happy to negotiate the minor obstacle and leave the cool air of the street for the warm hearth of a common room, the familiar smell of hearty food, and the cozy hum of friendly conversations. As the door closed, the sounds of hawkers and smell of goats were shut outside. In fact, all sound stopped. The gentle chatter and the click of stoneware against stone tables included. For a moment, Bilbo wondered if he was losing his hearing as well as his sight.

“Ho there! Nori!” Bilbo suddenly had the impression of another person standing right in front of him. Perhaps it was the volume of the voice or the warmth that dwarves seemed to radiate at all times. 

“Hullo Gendor,” Nori said jovially. 

“Welcome! Welcome to the Silver Shield!”

“Thanks. I’ve been here before.” Once again, that slightly cruel sense of humor was in Nori’s voice. Bilbo wondered who was about to step on something slippery. 

“Indeed you have! Indeed you have, Master Nori. Your usual table is open, if you’re expecting Company,” Gendor said. “First pint is always free, to members of the Company.”

“Kind of you,” Nori said, “but we can afford to pay.” 

Bilbo bit his lip to hide a smile. So that was it, eh? Well, he didn’t mind. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” He managed the best bow he could offer with the walking stick in hand. “If we wait for Nori to introduce us, he’ll make us wait all day.” 

“Gendor, son of Grandor, at the service of you and your family, Master Baggins. This way, this way! Master Nori enjoys a corner booth, but we’ve a lovely table in the window if you prefer.” 

Although he suspected Gendor would very much prefer to have the Dragonslayer sitting in a window where any passersby could see, Bilbo said, “A booth would be lovely. Let’s leave the view for someone who will enjoy it. And I’d prefer a half-pint, if you have a suitable mug and it isn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

“Of course, Master Baggins. Of course! We pride ourselves on service here at the Silver Shield. Do you prefer ale, beer, or small beer?” 

Off to the side, Bilbo heard a dwarf grumble, “Service? Never heard him string more than ten words together before today. I give him a nod; I get a beer.”

“Good beer, though,” someone else said. 

“Aye. Best beer under the mountain. No question about that.”

The hobbit smiled. “Which do you recommend, Master Gendor?” 

There was a slight pause, then Gendor said, “Well, at midday, most prefer my small beer. It’s refreshing and will warm you up for your afternoon work. But if you haven’t got any afternoon work to go to, I’d recommend the ale. It’s a good, strong winter warmer, and I’m rather proud of it, to tell the truth.”

“I would be pleased to try it,” Bilbo said, sliding into the booth. “Nori?”

“Fish and chips with extra chips, and a pint of the same,” the dwarf said amiably. 

“As you say, just a moment,” Gendor said jovially. Indeed, it was less than a minute before he was back, placing a stoneware mug in front of Bilbo and a plate somewhere nearby. “Here we are then!”

Bilbo felt the dwarf’s hovering presence, even after he said thank you. Lifting the mug to his lips, the hobbit took a slow sip. The ale was cool in temperature but warm in effect. Just what one wanted on a winter’s day, and it had a full, rich flavor. “Delightful!” he proclaimed, and it was not mere politeness. “Indeed, the chorus of praise your brews receive is well warranted, and I find that I must join my voice to it at once, Master Gendor.” 

“Thank you, Master Baggins. Thank you very kindly. Just give us a wave if you’re needing anything else.”

“We will,” Nori said, quite rudely. “Now shove off. In a minute, your other customers are going to stop staring at us and realize they’ve got orders waiting and food getting cold.”

From the snort Nori gave, Bilbo suspected that Gendor departed with a glare or an equally rude gesture, but the publican did depart. Taking another sip of his beer, Bilbo let his ears fill with the sound of recommencing conversations and his nose enjoy the familiar aroma of Nori’s chips. 

“I say,” he began after a moment, but he got no further. Stoneware slid over the polished table with a gentle scrape. 

“Help yourself,” Nori said, referring to the offered plate. “Got extra chips so we could share.” 

“Thank you, Nori.” Bilbo did, indeed, help himself. The chips were just as nice as the beer: thick enough so that you could taste the potato, but thin enough to be fluffy and well cooked the whole way through. “And thank you for taking the time to tell me about the streets. I’m sure Dori would have, but I somehow got the impression that he doesn’t like the idea of me wandering about on my own anytime soon.” 

Nori laughed. “Ach. Streets are important. I figured one of us owed it to you to tell you about them before—well. As Dori might say, it wouldn’t do for you to think Thorin came up with it all on his own.”

Beer turned to bile in Bilbo’s mouth. Choking down the liquid, he picked up his stick. “You knew?” he demanded. “You were part of that despicable deception?” 

“What?” Nori’s voice was surprised. All innocence. But then, he was a criminal, wasn’t he? He was probably very well versed at feigning innocence. 

“You’re as bad as he is! To come out walking with me, pretending everything is normal, when you were a party to that ignoble, hateful, loathsome lie the whole time! Did Dori know, too? Are all of you just pretending to be my friends?” 

“Bilbo!” The hand on the hobbit’s arm was very light for a dwarf. “I am your friend, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh.” Bilbo sat back down, sheepishly. His face was rather hot from all the shouting. He took a sip of his beer. He ate another chip. 

After quite a while, Nori said, “So. You and Thorin had a row, then?” 

“Yes.” Bilbo’s mug was empty, but he wasn’t entirely sure that a second would be a good idea. One made him lightheaded. Two would probably make walking back to his miserable sick room over all that gold impossible. He signaled the publican. 

When they had their second round and a few more chips, Nori asked, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No.” 

For a moment, Bilbo worried that the silence was too awkward to break. Unlike his brothers, Nori didn’t have very much in common with a bookish homebody, and he wasn’t really one for small talk. Fortunately, they were saved by the slamming open of a door, the tramp of feet, and happily chorused cries of, “Bilbo!” 

Fili and Kili bounced into the booth, Kili pressing against Bilbo’s side to make room for others. Listening carefully to the cadence of footfalls, smelling oiled leather, ink, and tea, Bilbo thought he identified everyone. 

“Hello Fili, Kili, Dwalin, Ori, Dori, Bofur, and Bifur! Am I missing anyone? Seems we’ve half the company here now. I didn’t realize the booth was that big.” 

“It’s not,” Bofur said. Someone laughed. 

“How did you know us?” Kili demanded. “Do you and Nori have secret signals? You should teach them to us. I’m great at Iglishmêk.” 

“You sign like a squirrel with a broken hand,” Fili said. “But you should teach us anyway, Bilbo. We all want to help you.” 

“I’m as surprised as you lot,” Nori said. “I didn’t give him a hint.” 

Dwalin snorted in disbelief. “And we’ll all take your word for that, right enough,” he said sarcastically. 

“I know you because you’re my friends,” Bilbo said. And because they were his friends, he did not add, ‘Blind I may be, but no one is going to trick me again.’ 

“More importantly,” Bofur said, “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming out to the pub? Letting Nori buy your first round. I question the very foundation of our friendship.” 

Whatever the foundation of their friendship might be, it seemed able to bear the weight of a round for everyone, and a very merry gathering commenced. Instruments were found, and other musicians joined the Company in lively songs. Fili and Kili insisted that Bilbo leave the booth to learn a little jig. Although it took him some time to get the hang of it, eventually the hobbit was whirling down a line of partners laughing as he went. 

Two dances was, perhaps, two too many for a recovering body. Bilbo slumped back to the booth with a pint of the small beer and his own plate of fish and chips, but he was very happy to do so. Certainly, he did not lack for company. Ori regaled him with tales of the slow reclamation of Erebor’s library, promising to transcribe any books that sounded interesting into the runic language which could be read by touch. Dwalin grunted a few words about the remodeled training yards for the army, which he seemed very proud of, and mentioned that Bilbo might enjoy a visit now that he was up and about. 

“Don’t be daft,” Kili said, flopping down next to Bilbo, smelling of sweat and far more ale than the hobbit had consumed. “Bilbo would be bored to tears by the training yard. It’s not as though he was ever interested in practicing swordplay. We should go to the Cavern of Echoes. Fili and I have been saying for days. It’s incredible, Bilbo. You’ll love it.” 

“Oh!” Fili’s voice was bright and eager. “Are we going to the caverns now? We ought to get Uncle. He’s got the voice to make the place sing properly.” 

“I’m afraid that I’m rather tired,” Bilbo said quickly, without thinking. 

He had cause to regret it at once. No sooner did he speak, but Dori answered. “Of course you are. And so am I. It has been a long day, after all. Do allow me to see you back to your room, Bilbo, and we’ll leave this lot to their little riot.” 

“Er, no thank you.” The party that filled the pub was still going strong. Music and the rhythmic dancing of dwarven boots filled his ears, but Bilbo was very aware that all the dwarves in his immediate vicinity had gone quiet. 

“No fear, Bilbo,” Fili said bracingly. “Now that you’re up and about, we can come down to the pub every day, if you like.” 

“You can’t, Crown Prince,” Dwalin said sternly. But his voice was much kinder when he added, “Though if Bilbo wants to spend his days in song, there will be many to join him.” 

“Indeed,” Dori agreed. “However, I think it’s time to call it a day. What do you think, Bilbo?” 

Denying how tired he was would be futile. The hobbit did want to turn in, but he couldn’t face the prospect of heading back. Walking across all of that gold again would be awful. Going back to the sickroom—full of the smell of ointments and a dozen reminders of Thorin’s lies—was inconceivable. 

“Is this place an inn?” he asked, “Or just a pub? Only, perhaps they have beds for rent somewhere, and I can have a little kip here. No need to go all the way back to my own room.” 

“Sorry!” Kili’s voice was rather too cheerful to suit Bilbo’s mood, suddenly. It wasn’t the lad’s fault, of course, but Bilbo shouldn’t have to pretend to be pleased about facing that awful place again. “I think Gendor has ideas about adding rooms one day, but everyone is still getting up and running. All he really has is a kitchen and the common room.” 

“Not that he wouldn’t give you his own bed if you asked,” Nori put in, “but I happen to know for a fact that he sleeps next to the fire here in the common room. He’s got a little fur rug, but it’s not nearly as comfortable as your room.” 

“Right.” Bilbo knew that the kingdom under the mountain was still being rebuilt. Thorin came to him daily with concerns about feeding, housing, and ensuring the safety of the slowly growing populace. Even so, he wasn’t the sort to give up without a fight. “I don’t suppose any of you live nearby? I hate to impose, but I would do very well in an armchair. I don’t need a bed.” 

“Course you don’t,” Bofur said. “You’d be happy to sleep in the street, I’m sure, and it’s nothing to do with the length of the walk back to your room. Apropo of nothing, why don’t we flag down a cart? It could take us as far as the treasure room without anyone needing to be carried.”

Deep within Bilbo’s heart, the flame of hope died. He smiled. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Bofur.” 

“It wouldn’t!” Kili’s voice was full of the sort of outrage which usually accompanied accusations of murder. “He’s doing the thing! Where he says no the first time you offer him tea, even though he really does want it, because who knows why. I know this one. Bilbo: I was going to put the kettle on anyway.” 

Someone laughed.

“How drunk are you?” Fili asked. 

“Well, I’m not sober,” Kili admitted slowly. “But I’m not wrong, either. Am I, Bilbo?” 

Reaching out, Bilbo patted the young prince’s arm. “You’re a very good boy, Kili, and I’m glad to know you.” Finding his stick, he levered himself up from the bench. “Now, how exactly do we go about hiring a cart?” 

“Wouldn’t be kettles,” Bofur muttered. Then he said, “Bilbo, as it happens, Bombur and I do have a little sofa at our place. Won’t be half as comfortable as your bed, you’d have to put up with Bombur’s snoring, and it’s nowhere close by. But we’d be happy to have you. You know my brother does a good breakfast, too, first thing in the morning.” 

The hobbit was well and truly trapped. Worse, he knew it. Accepting the offer would be the same as admitting he had no pride at all. Every Baggins bone in his body rebelled against the mere thought. At the very least, he ought to wait until Bofur insisted a bit. But Bofur was a dwarf. He wouldn’t insist. And even Bilbo’s Tookish spirit was not brave enough to walk across those gold coins again, remembering dragons. He took the bait. 

“Thank you, Bofur. That sounds delightful.” 

Once again, the party continuing elsewhere in the public house seemed to grow very loud as all the dwarves near Bilbo were suspiciously quiet. 

“Right,” Dori said suddenly. “That’s enough of that. Bilbo is tired. Let’s see him to someplace more comfortable than his sickroom where he can have a lie down.” 

“Sure,” Fili said. “Kili and I will just—”

“Naturally,” Bofur said. “And I’ll duck outside to flag down a cart. Won’t be a moment.” 

The trouble was, Bilbo really did feel exhausted. He heard Dwalin tromping off, Fili and Kili bouncing away, and he knew the others were up to something. Well. It wasn’t his job to sort everyone out. The dwarves could look after themselves in their own mountain. If they happened to work out that Bilbo was less than satisfied with his accommodations—locked away in Thorin’s treasure room like just another fancy cup whose feelings didn’t matter at all—that wasn’t his fault. He’d been polite about it. For nearly two months. Even the best manners had their limits. 

Bilbo chose to ignore the fact that he’d been happy enough with the little room while recuperating. Bilbo chose to ignore a number of facts, because a hobbit could only deal with so much when he was very tired. Leaning a bit on Dori’s arm, he said, “I’m sure Bofur and I will be just fine on our own.”

“Yes, yes,” Dori said, “But you’re taking a cart and going my way. You don’t mind a little company, do you?” 

“Never,” Bilbo swore. When it came to the dwarves of the Company, he even meant it. They were rude, ill mannered, and smelled like a barn full of goats, but he would rather be with them in the wilderness than alone in Bag End with a seven course meal on the table. 

That said, it was still their turn to look after things. Bilbo let Dori hand him up to Bofur in the cart like a child. The cart was a sturdy wooden construction, clearly designed for carrying goods, not people. While the sides were smooth and lacquered, there were no seats. Bilbo found a corner and sat on the floor. As the goat trotted, the cart didn’t seem to bounce much, even over cobblestones. Bilbo only felt the movement when his head fell to the side, and his temple rested against the wall. Even then, the cart just rattled a little in a soothing vibration, rather like the cheerful lull of dwarven voices filling the street around. 

Hands on his jacket woke Bilbo with a start. Kicking out hard, he rolled to the side and away. Everything was dark. Mirkwood. Couldn’t see an inch in front of your face in Mirkwood, but at least an attacker had the same disadvantage. Crying out to wake the others, Bilbo felt around in the darkness for Sting. The sword wasn’t on his belt—he couldn’t seem to find his bedroll—but he came up with a walking stick. 

“Bilbo! Bilbo! It’s us!” Bofur’s voice was urgent. 

“Spiders again?” the hobbit asked muzzily as memory returned to him. Then he blinked. He still couldn’t see, but he knew it was not the darkness of Mirkwood that filled his eyes. 

“No,” Balin said kindly. “There are no spiders here. We’re under the mountain, remember? We made it. We won.” 

“Balin?” Bilbo shook his head. “You weren’t in the pub with us?” 

“The pub,” Oin grumbled somewhere off to the side. “The pub. Two months thankless work bringing him back to life after dragonfire that would have killed a normal person. Thought I had a reasonable patient at last. Steady recuperation, light exercise, and healthy food. That was my recommendation. Does he listen? I thought he did. I thought he was an intelligent one. Find out he’s been dancing and drinking and tying one on, and was I even invited?” 

“No, I wasn’t,” Balin said. His voice was warm and calm, just as it always was, answering Bilbo’s question. “But I wanted to be here for this. We all wanted to be here for this.” 

Bilbo could hear the occasional snort of the goat at the front of the cart, but he couldn’t hear any other dwarves. That wasn’t because they weren’t there. Dwarves could be remarkably still sometimes. The second they moved, they made enough noise to rival an oliphant, but when they were still, they were statues. Bilbo could smell Nori’s cologne and Ori’s inks, Fili’s leather and the scent of flowers that always seemed to follow Kili these days. Sudden suspicion entered his mind and he asked, “Is the entire company here?” 

Balin hesitated. “Not the entire company.”

“I have no idea why.” Fili sounded angry. Far more so than Oin. “Uncle and Balin were together, but Thorin refused to come away. He said he was too busy. For this.” 

“Ah.” Bilbo felt his face flush, but hoped that the dwarves would attribute that to the effects of his nap. “Who did I kick just now, then? I’m terribly sorry.” It was an inelegant change of subject, but it worked. 

“That would be me,” Dori said. “And it was my fault entirely. You looked so peaceful sleeping in the cart there, I thought I would just carry you off to bed. But you’ve made your feelings on being carried very clear, now that it’s not a matter of fleeing from goblins and escaping death. I shouldn’t have tried it.” 

Straightening up, Bilbo said, “Thank you, Dori, for respecting my pride, but I’m still sorry.”

“Then I accept your apology, and we’ll say no more about it.” 

“Now.” Balin stepped forward, taking Bilbo’s arm gently. In part, the gesture was simple, expedient guidance. On a deeper level, however, Bilbo appreciated knowing exactly where at least one person was. It gave him a connection that the sound of footsteps, smell of dwarf, and all his other little tricks simply couldn’t. He missed seeing faces. “Let’s see you settled for the evening, Master Baggins. This is the High Hall, also called the First Tunnel and, more colloquially, Durin’s Dugout. There are two guards on duty at all times, and it’s their job to open the door for you. They’ll also greet you respectfully when you approach.”

Balin paused briefly and two voices Bilbo didn’t recognize chorused, “Good Evening Master Baggins,” as though they had been tutored. 

Bilbo smiled and returned the greeting. 

Together with the entire company, the hobbit passed between the guards and proceeded up a sloping corridor. It was not as wide as the roads in the marketplace, but four could walk abreast very comfortably. After only a few paces, Dwalin spoke up. 

“This is my home here, on the left, with the knocker shaped like a triangle.” 

“Oh!” Rather surprised, Bilbo asked, “Am I to stay with you this evening, then?” 

“No,” Dwalin said. “But you should know the place if you ever need me.” 

Nothing would do then but to stop the entire procession so that Bilbo could find Dwalin’s arm, give it a pat, and thank him for the kind gesture. 

A little way on, Gloin said, “And this is my home here on the right, with Oin’s directly across the hall on the left.” Apparently Gloin’s door knocker was set with square cut sapphires. Bilbo had a hard enough time telling two jewels apart when he could see, but the little squares were easy enough to feel under his hand. By contrast, Oin’s door had a sort of bell pull that apparently flashed lights around his home somehow in deference to his difficulty hearing. 

Just beyond Gloin and Oin was Balin’s home, with a knocker shaped like the head of a dwarf, his long beard on a hinge that swung up and down to do the actual knocking. Bilbo hid his smile at the novelty, privately thinking it was a rather silly place to put a likeness, but he did enjoy it. Napping in the cart had been rather revitalizing, and he was in a proper mood to go visiting. 

Across the corridor from Balin was another door. Unlike the others, it was made of wood, and circular instead of square. There was no knocker. One didn’t need a knocker on a wooden door. Instead, there was a brass knob right in the center. 

“It’s green, too,” Bofur said from somewhere far away. “We didn’t know if it mattered or not, about the green, but His Majesty thought it might be lucky.” 

Turning the knob, Bilbo stepped through. He didn’t bother knocking. It was his house. There was a stiff, welcoming mat in front of the door, and some sort of boot scrape beside it which all of the dwarves used faithfully. Then the floor was comfortable hardwood. Bilbo ran his hand along the wall, and found a coat rack with fourteen pegs, an end table for his post, and a neat little umbrella stand for walking sticks and suchlike. As he stepped beyond the entryway, his toes sank into a deep, lush carpet. 

“There’s carpet around all of the furniture, so you don’t bump into anything,” Balin said, with a gentle haste that caused Bilbo to put his hand out, feeling the back of an armchair. 

Exploring further, the hobbit found armchairs, a sofa, a plush little ottoman, and smooth tables exactly where he wanted them. Just space enough for about half of the company to take tea comfortably. Then he was on hardwood again, and he noticed that the grain of the boards ran parallel to the walls, so he turned and found the rough stone that outlined a fireplace. There was already a warm blaze in the grate. Reaching down, he felt a woodpile, kindling, and a sturdy poker just where they ought to be. Rising, Bilbo continued his exploration to the next room.

Leaving one room and entering another, the hobbit noticed the floor change beneath his feet to hexagonal tiles and held out a hand. The inference was correct. His hand connected with something wooden and smooth. Instead of asking the dwarves shadowing him, he felt his way around the structure, step by step. It was a dinner table. Much larger than his table in Bag End, although there were only ten chairs. 

“Not fourteen?” Bilbo tried to temper his grin as the dwarves stumbled over themselves to explain about the extendable nature of the table. Then he stumbled a bit as Kili tugged him hurriedly toward the wall to take note of the extra chairs around the outer edges of the room. 

“It actually seats twenty very easily, and don’t you worry a bit about it,” the prince insisted. “Fili and I will put the added leaves in any time you like.” 

The outer walls of the room also had china cabinets and linen cupboards, Bilbo was pleased to note. “It’s very clever to have this hexagonal tile all around the cabinets, too,” he said. “I certainly won’t bump into anything, and it will be very easy to keep clean.” 

“That was Thorin’s idea,” Balin said gently. “He designed the entire floor-plan himself, though he was not able to build as much as he would have liked personally. I am very sure that he would like to be here, if—”

“I will not see him!” 

Bilbo’s voice was sharp enough to cut steel. There was a collective gasp from the dwarves trailing him through his new home. Balin made a soft noise of dismay. 

Slowly, the hobbit took a deep breath. That was twice in one day he’d taken his temper out on Balin when he really wanted to yell at someone else. “Sorry, Balin, more sorry than I can say. I know it is not your fault, but I would like to be clear about this. Given my preference, I would not see Thorin Oakenshield again, even if it meant I could see all the rest of the world as well.” 

Everyone around Bilbo was absolutely silent. Still, in that way that folk made of stone could sometimes be. With a little huff, the hobbit strode away from Balin and continued his explorations. When the tile beneath his feet changed to a broad, square pattern, Bilbo discovered a new room, leaving the dwarves behind. 

Blind though he was, Bilbo had no difficulty discerning the nature of this room. It was a kitchen. It was his kitchen, only slightly rearranged. To his left there was a sink, to his right there was a little stove. Beyond that was a lovely oven. The counters and cabinets were all smooth wood, and when Bilbo stretched out a hand, he found the kettle exactly where one ought to hang it. Fetching it down, he filled it and put it on the stovetop. 

Tea was in a little cupboard just above the sink. No one had to tell Bilbo where to find it. However, for the first time he paused. There were six different jars with six different varieties. Each one had runes around the outside, likely describing the tea within. The word “tea” was easy enough to make out. Beneath that the “black” and “green” jars were equally obvious. The others he had to open and sniff. 

“I think I’ll have the chamomile,” the hobbit announced. “Would anyone else care for a cup? Shall I make a pot?” 

Finally, someone else spoke. “A spot of chamomile tea sounds lovely to me,” Dori said. 

“And me,” Balin agreed. “Please do make a pot.” 

“It’s another beer for me!” Kili’s joviality was forced, but Bilbo appreciated the effort. 

“Beer’s about all we have to offer,” Bombur grumbled. “I haven’t had a chance to stock the larders. Not really. Wasn’t expecting move in day just yet. There’s only beer, barley, flour, and other things as don’t go bad.” 

“We’ve made do with less,” Fili said, and the party recommenced.


	10. Audiences Without End

Thorin worked. 

He woke in the morning. He dressed. He ate. He took audiences. It was not a bleak existence. It was the culmination of years of dreaming and perseverance. 

Hundreds of decisions were needed every day to revive his kingdom. Should a mine be reopened? Could water quality be improved? Where would the next supply caravan come from? Was the petty theft problem in the Great Marketplace a real issue or only the natural paranoia of a city being settled by soldiers? 

Finishing his report, Dwalin bowed low before Thorin’s throne. The warrior looked very well, dressed in gold and ancestral armor, his long beard plaited in a noble manner. For far too many years, Thorin’s kin were forced to dress in rags and wander like beggars in the wild. It would never be so again. Allowing himself a brief moment of satisfaction, he turned to Balin. 

“You will tell Bilbo of this?” Not being able to do so himself stole the fleeting feeling of peace from Thorin’s heart, but he needed no advice on the matter. 

Nevertheless, Balin coughed. Folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe, the elderly advisor spoke carefully. “Perhaps it would be best if you told him yourself, my king. You cannot keep your word to tell him of every trial the mountain faces if you never face him again.” 

“You will tell Bilbo of the petty theft.” It was not a question. 

Balin offered no more unwanted commentary. Instead, he changed the subject. “The latest supply caravan from the Iron Hills arrived with a gift for you from Dain. A war boar of remarkable lineage, Sawtooth out of Razortail by Ukrahd. He wrote saying you might want to start breeding your own steeds, now that you have a place to keep them.” 

An involuntary twitch lifted the corner of Thorin’s mouth. “Leave the letter with me. Writing to thank my cousin is hardly a personal indulgence when he is my greatest ally.” 

Balin smiled. “In fact, it would be an act of political astuteness, I’d say. You should view the animal in question as well. For diplomatic reasons of course.” 

And so there was a quick trip down to the enclosures near the main gates where animals were kept. Sawtooth was a fine beast, with dark brown fur, bright eyes, and ivory tusks that gleamed white in the golden light of Erebor. Thorin did not admire him for long, however. There was work to be done. 

The days blurred into one another, but the audiences did not. No matter how dwarves droned, and the ones who sought quick wealth instead of land grants for mining or building always droned, Thorin gave his full attention to ruling. This was the purpose of his life. Reestablishing the once great kingdom of Erebor was his dream for nearly a century. He would not fail in it. He would not grasp victory only to come away with ashes. 

Instead, he would listen to the droning of a greybeard dressed in silver and silk. The Stiffbeards always dressed well, always lived in plenty, even during the long years when the Longbeards starved away. That was not something to focus on now, though. Politics was never easy, and Thorin had no desire to fight another war. Certainly not one with his dwarven neighbors to the east. 

“So you will grant our historical claim on certain artifacts from the treasure hoard of Thror?” 

“I believe that the history may very well be as you say.” Thorin kept his tone measured, showing none of his annoyance. “The Stiffbeard Clan has a long memory. Therefore, I am sure you will recall the offer which I made to your leaders less than a year ago. In exchange for aid, I was willing to divide the entire treasure between our two clans. Yet I was told the quest was mine, and mine alone. Surely you will acknowledge the justice, then, in the treasure going to those who did choose to aid me in reclaiming the mountain.” 

“A fair point.” For a moment, Thorin dared to hope that would end the question. Unfortunately, the Stiffbeard ambassador went back to droning about history. His voice was so even and soporific that Thorin struggled to remain awake. “Yet I might argue, your majesty, with all due respect, your majesty, that since the mirror in question was a gift from your illustrious ancestor to my lord’s, your majesty, precedent might contradict your point.” 

It was tolerable annoyance to suffer. More than tolerable. This was the work which Thorin spent his life longing to do. Studying the plans for new avenues and thoroughfares until late in the night was a privilege, not an obligation. Erebor would be great again. Thorin had no right to desire anything beyond that. He did not expect kingship to be feasting and celebrations, so he felt no loss in avoiding such things. 

Avoiding such things was necessary. To attend would be to risk Bilbo’s departure, not only from the revels meant to entertain him, but from the mountain as well. Thorin was not a fool. He knew there was no chance now that Bilbo would stay. When the burglar believed Thorin honorable, when he thought Thorin handsome, there might have been some partiality. Some small chance that Bilbo would yoke himself to Thorin, the throne, and the mountain. Now that any hope of such partnership, such happiness, was irrevocably demolished by Thorin’s stupidity, it seemed inevitable that Bilbo would return to his own home. Soon. Probably when spring came. 

What hurt most was that Thorin would not be able to accompany him. Bilbo would go with Balin, and others who would die in his defense, but Thorin would not be permitted to follow. Thorin must wait in Erebor, praying impotently for the welfare of a blind hobbit traveling through deadly wilderness. There was no way for Thorin to keep him safe anymore. 

He’d squandered his turn. Bilbo had been willing enough to be protected, to be given gifts, perhaps even to be wooed. Yet that time was past. At least he was willing to stay for a time in the rooms Thorin designed for him. Half afraid that Bilbo would refuse to dwell in a place built by one he hated, Thorin did not attempt to see the hobbit in his little smial. Imagining Bilbo bustling around the kitchen, pleased as anything to make tea for himself on a stove without open flames with a kettle that whistled when water boiled, was self indulgent enough. Unless Bilbo asked for improvements, Thorin had no more business in that place. The king would arrange the happiness of others and take nothing for himself. 

“Uncle,” Fili said. “These plans for new homes in the residential quarter are important, but they can wait until morning. Come to the Cavern of Echoes with us. You know how to make it sing better than anyone else.” 

Fili’s eyes were wide and pleading. Thorin had a duty to him as well as the throne. Ignoring such a request was a dereliction. Yet he could not go. Instead, he gripped his heir firmly by the shoulder. “Bilbo will not attend if I do,” he explained gently.

Snorting, Fili disagreed. “Bilbo is not a twenty-year-old in a snit, so I think he will. He may say he doesn’t want to see you now, but forgiveness comes with time.” 

“It should not.” Turning his attention back to the blueprints, Thorin wondered if the planned residences were spacious enough. Dwarves were not all alike, and so the residences could not be all the same. Some had four rooms, some had two. All must have plumbing, but a few would not have baths. Many prefered public baths, and would see a bathtub in the home as wasted space. However, all of the homes were roughly the same size, and Thorin wondered if that was a mistake. Most dwarves lived alone, or with one other. Those who had children rarely had more than two. Yet there were always families like Bombur’s, who astounded everyone with their fecundity, and a wise king planned for extremes. 

“How can you say that? Bilbo is our Dragonslayer! You cannot hold a grudge against him as you would some faithless elf.” Full of righteous anger, Fili slammed his fist down upon the table, upsetting Thorin’s maps. 

The king sighed. “I bear Bilbo no ill will.” Straightening his papers was easier than looking Fili in the eye. “There are no sides in this, Fili. It is as you say. Bilbo is the Dragonslayer. He did an epic service for our people at great cost to himself and expecting no reward. I know as well as you that he did not come for a share of the treasure. Gold is no temptation for a heart like his. Yet despite his deeds, without regard for his nobility, I wronged him. Greatly. I acted wholly without honor, took advantage of his wounds, and insulted his intelligence. I behaved in a manner unworthy of any dwarf, least of all a king. He should not forgive me.”

“I,” Fili hesitated. “I see.” 

Thorin looked at him. Although his brow was furrowed, there was no sign of true anger on Fili’s face. Clearly, he did not understand. Hopefully, he never would. 

“Well, we will miss you in the Cavern of Echoes,” the prince said finally. “I cannot make it sing properly.” 

“Have Kili bring his elf,” Thorin recommended, turning back to his work. “Bilbo likes elvish music.” It was easy to say. Easy now, to acknowledge that the hobbit’s liking of Thranduil and Elrond was not mere politeness. Now that Thorin must give up all hope of ever coming first in the hero’s heart. 

There was no music left for Thorin, but Bilbo deserved his fill.


	11. An Inconvenient Conversation

As Dwalin said, Bilbo’s friends were more than willing to fill his days with song. The Cavern of Echoes was every bit the wonder Fili promised. One voice turned into a thousand there, and a single harp became a symphony. A notable master of the instrument played a concert for their little group which brought Bilbo to tears. Kili’s elven friend Tauriel sang a song of springtime, and Bilbo thought that Luthien the Nightingale could not sound sweeter. Even the hobbit’s own poor singing became something almost good, and he resolutely did not wonder about what Thorin’s voice could do in a place like that. 

He did wish he could see the place. When the dwarves described it, they tended to use words like travertine and mineral deposit, and a lot of fancy terms for rock formations that often slipped into Khuzdul. Still, it sounded beautiful enough. 

Anyway, Bilbo knew exactly what the inside of a pub looked like. Many a happy hour was wasted in the Silver Shield as well. Bofur knew dozens of musicians, less refined than the master harpist, who were happy to learn a few Shire songs and teach Bilbo dwarven ones in turn. 

All of them did great justice to the beer. Oin was remarkably sanguine about Bilbo indulging now that they were indulging together. The healer enjoyed a good pint as much as the next dwarf, and Gandor was happy to serve. Bilbo did not wonder if Thorin would like the beer, or if the king’s presence would discombobulate the publican as much as a dragonslayer’s did. 

He didn’t care. 

Instead, he danced and drank and enjoyed his fish and chips. For variety, Tauriel occasionally sang in the elvish style, long ballads that brought Bilbo to tears. Mostly this happened when the party moved back to Bilbo’s hearth. Kili joked about not subjecting all of Obsidian Alley to elven music, but Bilbo suspected Tauriel was a bit shy about performing. Either way, the Company was remarkably tolerant of the change whenever it took place. They were remarkably tolerant about a great many things. Like the fact that Bilbo would nod off for long naps in the middle of the merriment, but wake and beg everyone to stay the moment he heard the music stop.

Nominally, it was a house warming, celebrating the fact that Bilbo was up and about. In truth, after a long journey, a battle, and constant work to put the mountain in order, everyone needed the chance to relax. Bilbo gave them an excuse. Like Dain gave Thorin an excuse after the Battle of Five Armies. Bilbo did not wonder if Thorin would enjoy the music. If Thorin wanted to join in, he should have been Bilbo’s friend instead of his keeper.

It was three full days before their party ended. Part of Bilbo wanted it to last forever, but when he came out of his bedroom after one of his naps, his head felt like a thousand dwarven hammers were pounding on his skull. Too long without a drink, perhaps, or a few too many in quick succession. Suddenly, the pleasant music was far too loud, and his friends were an annoyance. 

The moment he complained, Oin was at his side. At once, the healer shouted the rest of the Company out of Bilbo’s little home. Only Tauriel was allowed to remain. Her professional opinion was that Bilbo had overindulged, which was true, but her expression of it caused Oin to exile her as well. Then, Bilbo was obliged to drink a truly awful concoction—which included a raw egg—and sent back to bed. 

All told, it was probably the best ending that such a party could have. When Bilbo woke again, he was alone in an empty smial. Wrapping the blankets more firmly around his shoulders, he snuggled down into his soft bedding, enjoying the quiet. To his left, just on the edge of hearing, a clock ticked away the minutes. To his right, a warm fire crackled in the grate. Exactly what one wanted on a winter morning. 

After a time, Bilbo reached out a lazy hand, feeling around for the button at the base of the clock. When he found it, the low, brassy bell tolled eight times, then a higher, silvery bell chimed twice. Half past eight in the morning. Breakfast. 

Rolling out of bed, Bilbo pulled on a dressing gown and toddled off to the kitchen to put the kettle on. The sink was full of dishes, so Bilbo made a start on the washing up while he was waiting. Usually dwarves were very good about cleaning up as they went, but given their abrupt departure, Bilbo was happy to do it. They’d all been picking up after him for months. 

The hobbit ruthlessly didn’t think about the extent to which the Company helped him clean. 

The tea kettle whistled, interrupting the thoughts he wasn’t thinking, giving him an excuse to fry a few eggs instead. His new icebox was much larger and nicer than the one in Bag End, and the butter was so cold that it was practically a block of ice itself. Once it was in the pan, however, it sizzled a treat, and by the time Bilbo had a plate put together the butter was soft enough to spread evenly on his toast. A quiet breakfast was a small pleasure. Bilbo didn’t wonder if Thorin enjoyed the same. 

Instead, he wandered his home, feeling about for cups and plates abandoned on end tables. Having twenty settings precisely was very helpful. He never would have found the beer mug half full and abandoned atop the pottery hutch in the dining room without being very certain that one was missing. Giving the tables a good wipe down after second breakfast only made sense. While he was at it, he decided to find the broom, sweep up, and dust the mantles. An orderly house made for an orderly mind, as his mother always said. 

By elevenses, he was out of chores and decided it was long past time to get dressed. 

In Bag End, the hobbit had whole rooms devoted entirely to clothes. Theoretically, he had the same in Erebor, but so far that only meant that he had a few mostly empty dressing rooms. Thanks to Dori, there was an admirable system for sorting clothes by type and then color in place, but there were not many clothes to be sorted in such a way. That was just as well. Bilbo was as open to the sartorial advice of a good tailor as the next hobbit, but he liked to make his own choices. 

So he chose. Bilbo chose a fine silk shirt, a tweed waistcoat, and a warm wool jacket. Despite his trust in Dori’s system, he would have given a great deal to be able to look in a mirror. It was not the first time he’d dressed himself since the world went dark, but it was the first time he would be facing strangers without a friend to look him over first. 

Confidence could make silk out of rags, his father used to say. Plucking a walking stick from the stand next to his front door, Bilbo Baggins went down to the market. 

The walk was a rather long one. Following the stone roads of Erebor was easy enough, but in the darkness it required quite a lot of faith in his own memory. In the darkness, the path ahead seemed to stretch without end. Just when Bilbo began to suspect he was lost, the bustling sound of the marketplace ahead filled his ears. He was not relieved. To be relieved would be admitting that Thorin was right to worry in the first place. 

He wasn’t. Obviously.

Upon reaching the Great Marketplace, Bilbo knew his way to the Silver Shield by rote. Unfortunately, the Silver Shield was not his destination. Instead of right, he turned left on Marbleslab, and made his way to the outermost edge of the market. When dwarven voices mixed with the voices of men, Bilbo knew he was in the right place. 

Struck by a sudden suspicion, he stopped walking. “I can’t see you,” he announced, “but I know you’re there.” 

For a moment, there was only the sound of the street: goats tripping past with their heavy carts, haggling, hawking, and grumbling voices. Then, Bilbo received his answer. 

“How did you know?” Nori asked. “You said it was the scent of my hair oil before, so I changed to a different one.”

Rather than admitting to his lucky guess, Bilbo said, “Suffice it that I did know,” very shortly indeed. “Why are you following me? Did Thorin send you?” 

“Nah.” Nori was dismissive enough that Bilbo actually believed him. “Just wanted to see if I could. One burglar to another, what gave me away?” 

Sniffing, Bilbo resumed his walk. 

“Alright then.” Bilbo could hear the shrug in his friend’s voice as the dwarf fell into step with him. “I won’t follow after, I’ll walk with you. Where are we going?”

“I am going to see about some fish for dinner,” the hobbit said. “I would prefer to do so alone.” 

Nori hesitated. “The King really didn’t set me to following you.” 

“But you told him you planned on it?” Fuming, Bilbo stopped walking to face his friend. How he wished he could glare! It was impossible to express himself without a proper glare. 

“Told Dwalin,” Nori corrected. “He wants to have you guarded whenever you leave the Dugout. I figured you’d rather go walking with a friend.” 

“I would rather do for myself,” Bilbo said firmly. “But do please come to tea this afternoon.” 

“Bilbo.” Nori’s voice had a wheedling tone, and the hobbit imagined him raising his hands in a placating gesture. “You’re not just a little fellow any longer. There are more Men, Stiffbeards, and strangers in the mountain than folk we know and trust. If someone were to kidnap you, or strike at you to get to Thorin—”

“I don’t care! You tell Thorin Oakenshield that I’ve been walking through markets on my own for over forty years. If I’m not free to do so in his mountain, then I’ll go straight back to the Shire where I can do as I like.” 

“Okay! Okay! Stop shouting,” Nori begged. 

Around them, the street was quieter than it had been. Bilbo suspected people were staring. He didn’t care. He continued his attempt to glare at Nori, doubting its efficacy. 

“I’ll go,” Nori said. “Enjoy your shopping.” 

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo forced himself to ask, “Will you come to tea?” They were good friends, after all. 

Nori didn’t answer. His footfalls were lighter than other dwarves. Without the strong scent of his hair oil, Bilbo couldn’t identify him by anything other than his voice. The thief might have been two inches in from Bilbo’s nose. Or he might be gone. In the darkness, the hobbit had no way of knowing.

Turning, Bilbo continued down the street until he heard a fishmonger calling out. The fishmonger was a man from Dale, and he promised that all of his fish came directly from the Long Lake. After a little conversation, a few choice fillets were exchange for a few coins, and Bilbo proceeded with a parcel in one hand and his walking stick in the other. 

There was plenty of food in his hobbit hole—Bombur took the task of stocking a pantry very seriously—but that was not the point of going to market. Bilbo picked up a few slightly wrinkled lemons, a bottle of Dorwinion wine, and a new wooden spoon because he liked the way it felt in his hand. Because he could, the hobbit stopped by Zindi’s pie stand for a quick bite before returning home. 

Once again, the lass tried to give Bilbo his pie for free. “It’s worth more than a royal endorsement, you coming back to my little stand. Everyone knows hobbits are particular about food.” 

“No, no, no,” Bilbo insisted, reaching into his pocket for his coin purse. “You are trying to build a business, Zindi. Besides, they’re the best pies in Erebor. I’d hate to see you go under because you gave them away for free.” 

Then he stopped. In his pocket, his fingers closed on nothing at all. “Excuse me for a moment, I just have to—” 

Bilbo tapped his way over to the stone bench next to Zindi’s stall and set down his bag of groceries. Checking his other pocket was futile. It was just as empty. Searching his groceries was a waste of time. Bilbo was positive that he would not put his coin purse in the bag with his purchases. Nevertheless, he took out each and every item in the bag, feeling for his purse, listening for the absent jingle of coins. 

It was gone.

“Ah,” Bilbo said, quite embarrassed. “I’m afraid I shall have bring my shopping home before I can treat myself. Never fear, I’ll be back in an hour or so.” 

“Please have a pie, Master Baggins,” Zindi said softly. “It would be terrible for my business if you walked away without one.” 

Bilbo took a deep breath, and then thanked her for the kindness. 

As before, once Bilbo was settled with his pie, Zindi experienced a rush in sales. All of the customers seemed to want to greet Bilbo on the bench, which was a bit awkward. They said “Hullo Lord Dragonslayer” or “At your service, Dragonslayer” so loudly, Bilbo wondered if they thought he was deaf. Manners demanded that he nod if his mouth was full or say hello back if he could manage it politely, but it was tiresome to have so many demands on his courtesy directly after the humiliation of losing his purse. 

“Well, Master Baggins,” Zindi said, “I’m halfway to proving my father wrong and no mistake.” 

“Oh?” Bilbo was intrigued. That sounded like the start of a story, not just another pleasantry. 

“Did I ever tell you he forbade me to leave the Iron Hills? Didn’t want me to be a baker either, if it comes to that. He’s a miner, you know. My whole family’s been mining in the Iron Hills since there’ve been dwarves there. Good, steady work, prospecting for iron. A dwarf with skill in a mine always has a place in the world, my father says.”

“That life didn’t appeal to you?” Bilbo asked. 

Zindi laughed. “Not even a little. Spend my whole life in a tunnel moving forward at the pace of a pickax instead of my own feet? No thanks! I wanted to see a bit of the world. Meet new people. New kinds of people. Erebor’s incredible. I’ve met so many Men, dwarves of other clans, and even, if you’ll believe it, a hobbit.”

It was Bilbo’s turn to laugh. He also noticed that while he was conversing with Zindi, the many greetings stopped. He could hear the transfer of coin and the metallic click of her warm little oven opening and closing. Business was still steady, but it seemed to be conducted in a way that would not interrupt their little chat. Dwarves could be courteous. In their own way. 

“A hobbit, you say?” Bilbo took a bite of his pie and chewed thoughtfully. “That must have been further west. Hobbits almost never cross the Misty Mountains.” 

“What is it like? The land to the west?” Zindi asked. 

“Gentle,” Bilbo said. “There are no mountains in the Shire, just rolling green hills, little rivers, and wide fields.” He told the lass about hobbit holes, Bag End, Hobbiton, and his neighbors. It all seemed very far away, but when he spoke, he could almost see the emerald grass stretching out to fill the horizon. 

In fact, Bilbo enjoyed their conversation so much, that it was almost teatime when he made it back to his little hole in the First Tunnel. Balin was waiting for him on his doorstep. 

The wise old fellow was perfectly happy to wait while Bilbo put the kettle on, stowed his groceries, and got a little tea together. Such tasks took Bilbo more time than they once might have, but Balin only offered to help once. When Bilbo declined the assistance, his friend sat patiently and waited. Bilbo served a very respectable tea with cress sandwiches, currant scones, clotted cream, and warm jam. Although he had not baked the bread or the scones himself, he would not have been ashamed to serve the same in Bag End. 

Balin complimented the tea, and they settled in comfortably. 

“Did Fili and Kili come by to help you clean up after the party?” Balin asked. 

“No,” Bilbo said, “I managed very well on my own. Although I admit, the carpets may be a bit of a problem. I tried to pick one up to give it a good shake out in that snow covered patio which is meant to be my garden, but I couldn’t get it off the floor. I’m not sure that sweeping it with a broom did the trick.” 

“Ah.” There was a pause. In the darkness, Bilbo heard Balin take a delicate sip of his tea. “Thorin thought rugs would be unnecessarily hazardous. Too easy for the lads to move about if they wanted to play tricks on you.”

Bilbo did not start or snarl at the mention of Thorin, though Balin undoubtedly wanted him to. A gentlehobbit did not flinch at the name of an acquaintance. 

The dwarf continued, “All of the carpeting is properly fixed to the floor, and won’t be coming up without a great deal of redecorating. You’ll need to use a carpet sweeper to get it clean. There should be one in the broom cupboard. Dori or I can show you how it works whenever you like.”

“Thank you. Another scone?” Bilbo had no idea whether or not Balin was finished with his first, but as he was helping himself to seconds, the hobbit decided to offer. 

“Yes please.” Balin’s plate nudged the back of Bilbo’s hand just above the breadbasket, and Bilbo placed a scone onto it with a feeling of triumph. 

“There we are.” Bilbo grinned, and poured a little more hot tea into both teacups. “I had a lovely trip to the market this afternoon.” 

At Balin’s polite noise, Bilbo told him all about the woodworker, Zindi’s pies, and the fishmongers from Dale. Balin was an interested audience, asking for the direction of the woodworker and expressing an interest in visiting Zindi at some point with Bilbo. After all, good pies were hard to find. 

“By the way,” Balin said, when Bilbo concluded the tale of his trip. “His majesty has asked me to mention a threat Erebor faces.”

“Did he.” Bilbo had no desire to discuss Thorin. Or think about Thorin. Or hear Thorin’s name spoken aloud. 

“It would make my life a good deal simpler if you would let him speak to you on his own behalf.” 

“You needn’t carry tales for him. I certainly don’t care what he has to say.” 

Balin sighed. “He is my king, Bilbo, and he feels compelled to keep his word to you. It is no grand army, only a minor oddity. There is a rash of petty theft in the Grand Marketplace. Cutpurses, shoplifters and the like are making a nuisance.”

“Cutpurses?” Bilbo sat up straight. “Then I was robbed!” 

“What?” Balin’s voice was low and dangerous, but Bilbo paid it no mind. 

“I lost my purse. I thought I must have set it down and forgotten it at one of the shops I visited, but perhaps someone took it out of my pocket! I was robbed! Well, isn’t that a wonder. After all, anyone might be robbed.” 

“You were robbed. You.” 

“Yes! Isn’t it silly? The simplest explanation is usually best, as my father used to say. Oh! I am relieved.” 

“You did not mention losing your purse earlier.” 

At last, Balin’s hard tone registered with Bilbo. “Oh.” The hobbit hesitated. “Ah, well. It hardly matters. After all, I’ve got that great chest of coin in my bedroom and Gloin’s made it clear that he’ll refill it anytime I like from the treasury. You know he has those account books and everything.” 

“Yet I can’t help noticing that you are now relieved, in your own words. Relieved that some criminal dared to rob you. Forgive me Bilbo, but that does imply that you were concerned before.” 

“Balin.” Bilbo fiddled with the tea things, straightening the tray by touch. The clink of porcelain soothed his nerves a little. “Please. Don’t.” 

Balin was quiet for a long moment. In the darkness, Bilbo felt strangely alone. His friend was only across the table, but he wasn’t moving or making noise. For all Bilbo knew, the dwarf might have vanished away. Then, Balin’s armchair creaked, just a little. The dwarf must have shifted his weight. Leaning forward? Bilbo didn’t know. 

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. 

Springing to his feet, Bilbo murmured a polite “excuse me” and dashed off gratefully to answer it. 

“Bilbo!” Fili’s voice was a jovial trumpet, cutting through the unhappy darkness. The hobbit found himself wrapped in a quick, warm hug. When the prince backed away, his hands remained on Bilbo’s shoulders. “It is I, Fili, and Bofur is here also. Did Kili come to see you? He has disappeared with Tauriel. If he gets up to some mischief, I shall be blamed, so I would like to be a party to it when it happens.” 

Bilbo laughed. “If you are going to suffer the consequences, you might as well enjoy the crime, is that it?” 

“Precisely!” 

“I am sorry to say he is not here. Balin and I were having tea. As far as I know, no one else is in my smial.” 

Fili’s hands tightened briefly on Bilbo’s shoulders, before releasing him. “Then no one else is in your home, Bilbo. Dwarves do not sneak about. We announce ourselves proudly at the door.”

“Is that a fact?” Bilbo felt his smile grow stiff and unpleasant, but Fili didn’t deserve his vitriol. “Well,” he said quickly, before Fili could answer, “that will never do. You are my friends, and so you must come inside for tea.” 

“I must bid you farewell,” Balin said. His voice was practically in Bilbo’s ear, and the little hobbit jumped to realize the dwarf was so close. 

Dwarven hands caught Bilbo’s arm to steady him. Bilbo thought they were Balin’s, but he couldn’t be sure. All of the dwarves were still and quiet in that solemn, stoney manner that took them sometimes. The hobbit patted the hand with one of his own. “Thank you, I am quite well,” he said. “Only usually I hear you lot tramping around with your great boots. I must have been distracted.” 

“The carpet muffles them a little,” Balin said. Of course it did, but not that much. With constant focus, BIlbo could use his keen hearing and sharp sense of smell to piece together the world around him, but after a long day, he simply wasn’t attentive enough to manage it. 

“You said you were going?” This was tremendously rude, of course, but Bilbo was suddenly exhausted. 

“I am,” Balin said. “Someone must tell Thorin what happened today.” 

Bilbo sniffed. “Better you than me.” 

Balin sighed. “Good evening, Bilbo.”

Returning the pleasantry, Bilbo ushered Fili and Bofur in, listening to Balin’s receding footsteps. “Just let me clear the tea things, and I’ll put on a little dinner,” the hobbit promised. “I’ve some lovely fish from the Long Lake, and I managed to find a few lemons, so you’re in for a treat.” 

“Here,” Fili said, “let me.” 

Unlike Balin, the prince refused to take no for an answer, and practically bowled Bilbo over clearing away the tea things. 

“Place looks nice,” he added. “Are you sure Kili hasn’t been by? We were going to help you clean up after the party, but Dwalin was a beast this morning. I suppose you weren’t the only one who overindulged a bit, and he said three days was too long for a break from training.” 

“I am perfectly capable of cleaning my own home,” Bilbo said snippily. Moving pointedly around Fili at the sink, he got out flour, eggs, and crumbs to start breading the fish to fry. 

“Of course you are,” Bofur said. The toymaker’s voice was strangely quiet. 

Fili sighed. The water in the sink stopped running, and there came the gentle clink of a final dish being set to dry. 

“Well.” Bilbo forced a little cheerfulness into his voice. “I begin to suspect that you did not come looking for Kili after all! If you don’t intend to stay for dinner either, you might say so outright. Or I am doing all this work for nothing.” 

“We are honored to share in your meal, Bilbo,” Fili said firmly, “but it is true that Bofur asked me to come here on a different errand.”

“Not to do my dishes, surely.” Bilbo wanted to gag Fili, or at least shove an apple in his mouth so that he could say nothing further. The hobbit knew full well what the prince wanted to talk about, and it wasn’t a subject he cared to visit. 

“Bilbo.” Bofur was so hesitant. The crude toymaker was never hesitant. Bilbo wished his friends would not be so careful with him, even as he wished they would consider his feelings and leave the topic alone. 

“We must speak of your anger,” Fili said firmly. 

“If you would like me to be angry with you, by all means.” Bilbo got out a heavy cast iron frying pan and set it to heating with a clang. 

“Bilbo,” Bofur repeated, “I know. Or I think I know. Your Khaz was the king, wasn’t he? Is that. Does that have something to do with why you are so angry with him?” 

“Yes,” Bilbo said, pouring oil into the pan. “Thorin lied to me. Again. He told me his name was Khaz, and he lied. But he never will again, because I will never speak to him again. And that is the whole story.” 

Fili drew in a sharp breath. “It is true?” He sounded very young. Hurt. The way Kili sounded when the orc arrow caught him in the leg and he came over all feverish. Bilbo sometimes forgot that Fili and Kili were in the dwarven equivalent of their late tweens. 

Frowning, the hobbit tested the pan with a few drops of water, listening to the oil sizzle and pop. “Leave it there,” he said. “Let’s talk about something else.” 

“I cannot.” Fili’s voice was hoarse. Bilbo began to wonder if he was actually sick. A three day party had to depress even the strongest the constitution, and the last month of winter was always the most dangerous. Perhaps the prince was coming down with a cold. 

Dropping his carefully breaded fillets into the pan, Bilbo groped in the dwarf’s general direction until he found his shoulder. Intending to place a hand on the lad’s forehead to feel for a fever, the hobbit found both of his hands grasped firmly in a dwarven grip. 

“It is unforgivable. More, he knows it.” As he spoke, Fili’s voice grew more certain. “I am a prince of the House of Durin, Bilbo. If there is to be justice in Erebor, even the king must bow before the law. Thorin will pay for his crime. I swear it. Tell me: would you have his head?” 

“What?” Squawking like an undignified chicken, Bilbo might have tripped over his feet and fallen without Fili’s support. “No!” 

The hands on Bilbo’s tightened, and the dwarf’s breath came in a quick, relieved puff. “Are you certain? It is true that the typical sentence for such a crime is not death, but the Dragonslayer must be equivalent to royalty. The sentence for assaulting a member of the royal family is beheading.” 

“I—what?” Bilbo repeated. “Assault? Thorin didn’t assault me, Fili.” 

Now, Fili’s voice was gentle, like he was trying to sooth a startled pony. “Keeping the matter confidential may seem like a kindness, Bilbo, but you do not owe us that. Nor should the dwarves of Erebor put their faith in a king who would abuse his power thusly. The great wrong which Thorin did you will be redressed. Publicly.” 

“Why?” Bilbo was honestly bewildered. “Why would you think—?”

“Bilbo, listen to your heart,” Bofur said. “Whether or not you were amenable to the attentions of your Khaz, believing him to be a dwarf named Khaz, you did not want Thorin. That he got what he wanted through trickery and lies while you were injured does not make it any less of a crime than if he used force while you were well.” 

“I don’t—Bofur!” Bilbo did not know what to say. “It wasn’t. Thorin didn’t do anything like that! I mean, he did tell me his name was Khaz, but why in the world would that lead you to conclude—?”

“Khaz—a Khazad—is a dwarf,” Fili said slowly. “Surely you have heard enough of our language by now to know that much.” 

“Yes.” Bilbo’s face flushed as red heat suffused his cheeks. “I did work that much out, after the fact.” It was yet another reason he should have known. Another example of how foolish he’d been.

“It is a name we give to outsiders, when we do not wish to give our own,” Fili continued. Then he hesitated. 

Off to the side, Bofur scoffed. Bilbo heard his heavy boots pacing back and forth near the stove. “It is the name we give our lovers,” the dwarf said, “when our hearts are uncertain and we hesitate to tell our friends.”

Releasing Fili’s hands, Bilbo stepped back very quickly. “That’s not. I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong impression.” 

“Bilbo.” Bofur sounded so strange. But desperately wishing to see his face changed nothing. “You told me yourself. That you preferred bathing with your Khaz.” 

“Oh.” Bilbo sat down heavily at the kitchen counter. “Oh, fine,” he said dully. “I shan’t forgive you for making me say this, though. Don’t you know how much easier it is to be angry than to be—” The hobbit stopped. Admitting his embarrassment, his fear, his devastation, was impossible. 

“You needn’t speak of it,” Fili said quickly. “You needn’t concern yourself with this at all. I will face my uncle alone.” 

“No.” Bilbo’s head was too heavy to lift. Having no way of looking at Fili’s face was almost a relief. “No, I won’t let it come to that. So. The great crime of Thorin Oakenshield. Well. That would be cleaning up my piss.” The crude word came out in a rush. Bilbo almost couldn’t say it, but he had to be absolutely clear. Using a euphemism would only mean repeating himself a dozen times until the dwarves understood. 

“What?” Bofur and Fili were a little off. They needed to practice more to speak in tandem the way Fili and Kili often did. Bilbo laughed, but it was a flat, joyless sound. 

“I was recovering,” the hobbit said, blank and empty as a sheet of white paper. “It was the middle of the night. I thought I could use the chamber pot on my own. I couldn’t. I fell. It spilled. A mess was made. Thorin must have known that I’d rather be found by orcs than by him in that state, so he put on an accent and gave me a fake name.” 

Neither Bofur nor Fili said a word. 

“He didn’t have to keep on.” Bilbo’s breath came fast and hard. The pounding of his heart in his chest was almost painful. “For over a week. If he hadn’t. But he came back. And I thought he was someone whose opinion didn’t matter. Someone who didn’t care. He was just looking after me. Because I can’t. I can’t look after myself anymore. And the fish is burning.” Bilbo could smell it. 

Cursing, Bofur leapt to the stove, clanging the hot frying pan about and scraping it noisily with a spatula. “I’m sorry, Bilbo,” the toymaker said. “I don’t think it’s salvageable.”

“Nothing ever is,” said the hobbit.


	12. Like A Pig In...Something

Murdering Kili would be too extreme. Thorin wanted to, of course, but the crime probably didn’t warrant it. Perhaps a slight maiming would be sufficient. Lopping off an ear held a certain appeal. 

First, the lad interrupted Thorin at his work. That merited nothing worse than a small frown, though Thorin was busy organizing guards to find the scum who dared attack a Dragonslayer. Then Kili fed his liege lord and sovereign a false story about Sawtooth falling ill. Sawtooth was a gift from Dain, a war boar of tremendous girth and ferocity, the get of Razortail, who died in the Battle of Five Armies. Intended to help Thorin establish breeding lines of his own now that spring was on the horizon, Sawtooth symbolized a fertile future for the Lonely Mountain. To lose the animal in anything less than pitched battle would be an insult to Thorin’s favorite cousin, though the good natured Lord of the Iron Hills might not care. Thorin cared. So he entered the boar’s enclosure, and Fili locked the gate behind him. 

Maybe it was Fili who deserved the punishment. 

Sawtooth was not ill. Sawtooth did not like visitors in his pen. Sawtooth pawed the ground, lowering his massive tusks, and charged. 

Without a weapon to defend himself, Thorin could only leap away from the boar. Slipping in the filth of the animal’s enclosure, he rolled, narrowly dodging the cloven hooves which slammed down into the muck. Mud and filth splashed up, nearly blinding Thorin as it struck his face. Bellowing for his nephews to end their joke, the warrior rose to his feet and squared off against the giant boar. 

The creature was twice Thorin’s size, faster than him over a distance, and armed with tusks longer and sharper than many a dagger. In answer, Thorin was quicker in a turn, smarter, and more experienced in battle. Experienced enough to know that the odds were against him. 

At least he was in the silks and robes of court. Weighed down by heavy armor, the dwarf would already be dead. 

Vaguely, Thorin wondered if his nephews genuinely meant to assassinate him. With the approach of spring, Sawtooth was at his most ferocious, eager to defend his new territory and claim a mate. If Thorin died, it would be easy for his nephews to explain away, but he did not have time to consider the question. Squealing with rage, Sawtooth charged him again. This time, Thorin was too slow. Spinning out of the way, he slipped again in the grime of the enclosure and one ivory tusk ripped through his shirtsleeve, gouging the arm beneath. Grunting in pain, Thorin knew he could not simply continue to dodge. 

Finally it occurred to him that he was not wholly unarmed. Unfastening his strong leather belt was the work of a second. Thorin had it off and wrapped around his hands by the time Sawtooth turned. Rage burned in the boar’s eyes as it stamped the ground, reading for another pass. This time, Thorin did not try to dodge. Instead, he leapt onto the boar’s back, wrapping the belt around its massive neck. The wily creature quickly realized that he could not toss the heavy dwarf off his back, and so it rolled in the muck, trying to dislodge Thorin another way. 

Narrowly avoiding being crushed by the weight of the beast, Thorin slid off its back and looped his belt around two of its legs, tying front to back. The beast lashed out with one of its free legs, scoring a powerful kick to Thorin’s side, but it had not the leverage to crush him. Even so, Thorin backed quickly away, keeping his eyes on Sawtooth as the boar squealed and struggled, trying to free itself or stand. Backing into the heavy gate, Thorin pounded on it with a clenched fist. 

“Open this now,” he demanded. “By order of your king.” 

Behind him, the gate creaked open. Before him the leather of the belt snapped, and Sawtooth rose. Forgetting dignity, Thorin dashed through the gate and slamming it behind him, putting all of his own weight to brace it while other hands lowered the bar just in time. Sawtooth slammed his immense girth against the other side, knocking Thorin to the floor, but the gate held. The beast was trapped. 

Breathing deep with relief, Thorin looked up into a bearded face that did not belong to either of his nephews. Staring down at him was a shocked groomsman. On the ground, covered in pig filth, Thorin suspected he did not look much like a king worth following. 

Ignoring the pain in his arm and his side, the dwarf drew himself up, nodded thanks to his rescuer, and marched away with great dignity. Sawtooth slammed against the gate a second time, a great noise in the awkward silence, but Thorin did not flinch. 

Despite taking the back-ways, Thorin did not pass unseen through Erebor. Many were the dwarves who looked askance at him, held their noses, or laughed nervously upon recognizing his face. From an exiled beggar to the king of mud. Thorin was not going to kill his nephews. Death would be too easy. No, he was going to string them up in the center of the Grand Marketplace, strip them nude, cut their beards, have them whipped, or perhaps even tell their mother of the crime. 

“Halt,” commanded the guards at the entrance to the High Hall. 

Furious, Thorin glared at them.

Choking and tripping over their ax handles, the dwarves scrambled to get out of his way. “Forgive us, your majesty.”

“Apologies, Sire, we did not recognize you.”

The ‘covered in shit’ went unsaid. Thorin did not forgive them. He did not punish them either. Storming past the hapless pair, he continued to make his way home. All he wanted was a bath, and the heads of his nephews on a pike. 

Then he saw Bilbo. Fili, Kili, and Bilbo were all standing in front of the hobbit’s green door, smoking.

“What in the world is that terrible smell?” 

Thorin was frozen. Rooted to the ground. Answering was impossible. 

“That would be my uncle,” Fili laughed. Kili joined him, collapsing against his brother with the force of their mirth.

What were they doing? Standing in the hall outside of Bilbo’s home was pointless. Bilbo had chairs and garden benches and a comfortable fire behind his door, so why were the three of them on this side of it.

“Your uncle?” Bilbo looked bewildered. “Surely not. It smells like a pig-pen.” 

“Exactly,” Kili crowed. “Oh, exactly like!” 

“Thorin? Why would you? Er. Have you taken up pig keeping?” The hobbit’s eyes stared off down the hall, significantly to the right of Thorin. To his tremendous shame, the king was grateful that Bilbo could not see his torn and soiled clothing. 

Finding his voice, Thorin said, “I apologize for disturbing you, Master Baggins. Pray, excuse me.” 

Bowing, Thorin strode forward with all the confidence he could muster, meaning to pass by quickly. Bilbo’s hand darted out with surprising dexterity, and the king only just managed to dodge, so as not to soil him with a touch. 

“Thorin.” The hobbit’s face was serious. His voice was demanding. “Third time pays for all. Lie to me again. Or don’t.” 

So Thorin had to answer, but he tried to couch fact in more flattering terms than the reality. “My beloved nephews locked me in a pen with an unbroken war boar of renown ferocity. I come from battle, triumphant only because I was not forced to injure the valuable creature permanently. If I do not have them killed for attempted assassination, it will be too lenient.” 

Fili scoffed, but Kili’s eyes widened and the lad finally straightened up. “Say, uncle! Your arm is bleeding.” 

“Tis but a scratch,” the king said, feeling the edge of mercy creep into his heart. For Bilbo’s face morphed from suspicion to deep concern with the admission of the wound. If Thorin could be a warrior in his mind again, perhaps the hobbit’s opinion of him would improve. Maybe, if the king showed mercy, Bilbo would feel it too.

“You were wounded in a pig-pen?” Once again, Bilbo reached out, as if to touch Thorin, and one again the king sidestepped to avoid dirtying him. 

“War boar,” he corrected hopefully. “You have never seen one, but Dain raises them for battle in the Iron Hills. Sawtooth is large enough for a dwarf to ride—larger than a pony by weight if not height—and fierce enough for any battle, though he is not broken to the saddle. Dain gave him to me as breeding stock, not for use.” 

Bilbo’s mouth dropped open. Then he snapped it shut. “Come, come inside. Oh dear. You must get into the bath at once. Kili, run and fetch Oin.”

Thorin hesitated as the hobbit opened the door. “My wound is not so serious as that,” he admitted, regretting the honesty. “I would not pollute your home, much as I have longed to see it with you.” 

“Never mind about any of that! Don’t you know how dangerous it is to take a wound in a pig-pen? Oh, you could fall terribly ill. Get going, Kili.” Then Bilbo did catch hold of Thorin, moving with startling alacrity before the dwarf could dodge away. 

Thorin stopped resisting. Resisting Bilbo was so wholly opposite to his wishes that the very idea was futile. Instead, the king allowed himself to be ushered into the bathing room, accepting a burlap sack for his soiled clothing. 

Bilbo’s bath was in the hobbit style, only big enough for two, but when Thorin designed it he included a showering fountain. It was one of the few concessions made to his own preferences while designing the chambers he hoped one day to share. He was grateful for it now, despite the reminder that all such hopes were for naught. The first flood of the fountain washed much of the grime from his body straight down the drain, not soaking him in it as a bath might. 

When Thorin turned the water off to begin soaping his hair, he heard voices from another room. 

“Is justice satisfied?” Fili asked. There was still laughter in his voice. Thorin was going to make him regret that. Thorin was going to make him regret his very birth. 

“Fili?” Bilbo paused. “Fili, did you do this for me?”

“Well, I did promise you public retribution. I wager half the city saw him walking back from Sawtooth’s pen.” 

For Bilbo. Not an assassination attempt. Not a childish prank. Fili decided that Bilbo should smell Thorin covered in shit to redress the wrong of Thorin’s deceit. It was reasonable. The beginnings of a proper, well deserved punishment. Moreover, Bilbo clearly felt it so, because he’d welcomed Thorin into his home immediately. Thorin forgave his nephews everything. In fact, he was grateful for their vision. 

“Fili.” Bilbo’s voice was not grateful, or even mildly pleased. “Why don’t you go get your uncle’s clothing from the bathroom. Take it out into my garden—yes I do know that it’s frozen and full of snow at the moment—and give it a good scrubbing. You may boil water on the stove, but I expect you won’t need to come inside for anything else until those clothes are good and clean.” 

“Bilbo!” Fili sounded surprised, as well he might. He had done nothing deserving such punishment. 

“He could have died!” Bilbo snapped. “You penned him in with a wild animal! Have you ever seen the fever that takes folk who are wounded while mucking out a pig pen? Old Fatty Boffin died that way, you know, and the doctor couldn’t do a thing for him. Didn’t recognize me when I went to visit him. Didn’t recognize his own children. It isn’t funny. You took a dangerous risk with your uncle’s health. You’ll apologize and clean his things for him.” 

“Yes, Bilbo. I’m sorry.” 

Moments later, the bathroom door creaked open and Fili entered the room, scowling with contrition. When he saw Thorin’s face, however, his mouth shifted into a matching grin. The prince bowed deeply, rising with a smirk. 

“I beg you will accept my apology for the great wrong that I have done you, uncle,” he said formally. 

Thorin shook his head, and returned to soaping his body clean of the filth. “I overheard your chastisement, and I feel no need to add anything. I accept your apology and your punishment. My things are in that burlap sack by the door, but you need only clean my boots and the jewelry. My clothes are too torn to be worth saving. Burn them instead.” 

Winking, Fili picked up the sack and slung it over one shoulder. “As ordered, my king,” the lad said cheekily. 

Thorin released the water of the shower again to rinse away the first layer of soap and grime from his hair. Conveniently, it flooded his ears, so he could not hear the smug conceit of his nephew. Without looking at the lad, Thorin felt obliged to add, “It would not be a bad day for you or your brother to ask a boon of me, if there was something you desired.” 

Fili’s laugh was loud enough that Thorin heard it even through the rush of the water.


	13. As Ravens Meet

“The hobbit is right,” Oin said sternly. “Last thing you want with a cut like this is to cover it in filth. Bathing at once was the best possible thing.” 

Sniffing, Bilbo refrained from saying, “I told you so.” 

Thorin sounded chastened, his warm, deep voice sending a tremor through Bilbo’s heart. “Then once again, I am in your debt Master Baggins.” 

“Oh, not at all,” Bilbo said quickly. “How do you feel?” 

“Well enough,” Thorin said. A strong hand took Bilbo’s carefully. It was nice, feeling Thorin close by on sofa, not simply hearing his voice. “The wound was not deep, and Oin’s poultice numbs the sting.” 

“Fitting words for a king,” Oin said. “I’d never dare contradict him.”

Squeezing Thorin’s hand, Bilbo smiled. “But your medical opinion differs somewhat?”

“Ach, I can’t speak to whether or not it pains him, but it’ll be three weeks healing if it’s a day. Still, the color’s good and he’s not leaking like he would if there were ill humors. Change the bandage regularly, clean it daily, keep a poultice on, and I’d say he’ll be fine.” 

“Good.” Something tight in Bilbo’s chest eased. He let go of Thorin’s hand and took a deep breath. That was very good. 

“Well, I’ve real work to get back to,” Oin said. The armchair creaked a little as he stood up. “If you’re done putting yourself in danger for fun.” 

A soft huff was Thorin’s answer to that, but Bilbo felt the dwarf rise from the sofa beside him. Bilbo stood as well. 

“I believe you’ll find that all of the amusement belonged to my nephews, but yes,” Thorin said. “Thank you Oin. By all means, return to your business.” 

So it was that Oin bid them both farewell. The door to Bilbo’s smial opened, closed, and the hobbit was left alone with the king. A king who was wearing Bilbo’s housecoat, because Bilbo had nothing else that would fit him. The hobbit couldn’t see him, of course, but he could imagine what that looked like. It probably only came down to Thorin’s knees. If Bilbo could see right now, he could have seen Thorin’s knees. But he couldn’t, so it didn’t matter. 

Anyway, they were not entirely alone. Not exactly. Fili was only out in the terraced garden just beyond the second parlor. Even so, Bilbo was not sure how he felt about the prospect. After all, he could hardly call Fili in to shield him from an uncomfortable conversation when he was the one who ordered the prince to go work in the snow and ice. 

“I am still furious with you, you know,” Bilbo said quickly. 

“Yes.” Thorin’s voice was grave. “As you should be. As I knew you would be once you understood my lie. I behaved without honor.” 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Bilbo pointed out, “You also haven’t apologized.” Which was a bit unfair, given that the hobbit hadn’t been willing to hear one earlier.

“No,” Thorin said. “I haven’t. I can’t.” 

“Can’t you?” Just like that, Bilbo really was furious again. “You lied to me for a week. Pretended to be someone else! Took advantage of the fact that I am blind!” 

“Yes,” Thorin said. “And I am sorry for it. Selfishly, impossibly sorry for it. More than anything because I caused you pain, which is the last thing that I ever wanted to do. Yet an apology must be promise to do better in the future, and I do not know how to make such a vow.”

“Try not lying to me!” 

“Bilbo.” Thorin’s voice was soft, and he felt so far away in the darkness. “Do you think I had no scruple about lying? To you above anyone else? A single lie tarnishes a dwarf’s honor, just as much as a broken vow, if not more. Moreover, to take advantage of your infirmity by caring for you when it was clear you prefered the assistance of others was a despicable act. I knew it at the time. There is no promise I can make that you can trust.” 

Something deep within Bilbo’s chest clenched like a fist, then relaxed completely. How like Thorin to refuse to lie and apologize for lying when it would only benefit him. With that realization, Bilbo forgave him. It was not logical or wise. Forgiveness often isn’t. But when the heart changes, there is no holding on to anger. 

“Then do not promise me anything,” Bilbo said. Turning, he sat down in the most comfortable armchair. “It is enough that you are sorry. I believe, even if you do not, that you will do better in the future. Will you come to tea tomorrow?” 

There was a sudden noise, like a startled dwarf bumping into an end table, and Thorin said, “Yes,” very quickly. 

Bilbo smiled. “Good. Then there is only one more thing I must say before we leave this behind, Thorin.” 

“I understand,” the king said gravely. Bilbo heard a soft creak, as though Thorin was sitting once more as well. 

“Do you?” Bilbo laughed uncomfortably. Then he took a deep breath. He wished he had some tea now, or something to do with his hands. “Well, I need to say it anyway. Thank you for helping me.” 

At once, Bilbo’s nervous hands were enfolded in Thorin’s. There was a little rocking noise. From the angle of Thorin’s wrists, Bilbo imagined that the dwarf was out of his chair once more and kneeling, prostrate, at Bilbo’s feet. “I will always come to your aid, Bilbo, always.” That was a vow the noble king had no trouble making, of course. It was also far too much, too quickly.

Withdrawing his hands, the hobbit stood up quickly and stepped away. “Yes, thank you,” he said, still discomfited by the idea of just how much help he needed. “Tomorrow then? I shall make a seed cake.” 

“Tomorrow,” Thorin said stiffly. There was a brief pause, and Bilbo suspected a bow was involved. “Good morning.” 

“Good morning.” Bobbing his own head, Bilbo showed the king to the door, then went out to the frozen garden to see about Fili. 

The next day was a better one, without mischief making princes of any sort. In the morning, Ori came over to Bilbo’s smial for another lesson in runes. Before heading to Bombur’s for lunch, Bilbo baked his award winning seed cakes and set them to cool. Then he spent a little time in the marketplace with Dori, making the acquaintance of a tailor who the weaver introduced as “passable.” 

The tailor, a charming dwarf who seemed to be along the lines of Gloin’s build from what Bilbo could tell, laughed heartily at that. “I was the finest master in the Iron Hills,” he said, “and Lord Dori knows it. But just you judge me by my work, Master Baggins.” 

Glad to do without any of that Dragonslayer business, Bilbo ordered three new shirts and had a serious discussion about waistcoats. They were not fashionable among dwarves, apparently, but the tailor was willing to make an effort. Particularly since he would soon have plenty of wool to work with, and fine tweed woven by another friend of Dori’s. Shearing season would come with the first thaw, and then Erebor would be as rich in fabric as it was in gold. 

Feeling very productive, the hobbit made it home in plenty of time for tea at four. 

Thorin was exactly on time. Bilbo knew that, because his kitchen clock rang out the hours during the day, and the moment it began to chime four o’clock, there was a knock at the door. It seemed that punctuality was the politeness of kings, after all. 

Things began awkwardly. Thorin was stiff and formal, offering to help six times, but never bullying his way forward to actually do so as Fili did. The seed cake moved things along a little. Bilbo was able to babble a bit about how fortunate Bombur was to find caraway that anyone was willing to part with this time of year, and Thorin was free with compliments about Bilbo’s recipe. 

“I suppose a great deal of gold helps with the acquisition of spices,” Bilbo mused. “But I can’t help thinking that the folks who’ve saved seeds all winter for a nice, traditional spring seed cake would be loath to part with them.” 

“Those who come to Erebor in the middle of a harsh winter come for gold,” Thorin said. “And they are more loath to leave without it.” 

Smiling at the king’s dry sense of humor, Bilbo said, “I suppose that is so. Willing to do most anything at all to get it, too, I imagine.” 

“We have not yet found the thieves who dared to steal from you,” Thorin admitted. “Dwalin redoubles his efforts with the guard, but it is difficult. The soldiers from the Iron Hills are trustworthy and honorable, but we do not know them well. We do not know who is most capable, who is most observant, or even who would do better on a night shift than a day. It is a challenge.” 

Reaching out, Bilbo patted Thorin’s knee companionably. “You are finding your feet,” he said. “There is no shame in that. If things are disorderly now, they’ll naturally improve when your own people arrive from Lune. That said, I suspect it will always be more difficult to catch thieves in a public marketplace than, say, guard a treasure room. Even in the Shire, we always have fauntlings filching apples and the like. Hardly worth worrying about too much. You’re doing a fine job as king, Thorin. More tea?” 

“Will you hold something for me?” The words came out in a rush, very unusual for Thorin. Anxiety was quite out of character for the steady dwarf. 

Only one answer was possible. “Of course,” the hobbit said, putting down the teapot and holding out his right hand. 

Thorin’s strong, calloused fingers wrapped gently around Bilbo’s left wrist, raising it. Then something warm and metallic was placed in the hobbit’s outstretched hands. “It is heavy,” Thorin warned. When Bilbo nodded, the object suddenly became so. It was entirely in Bilbo’s keeping. 

Running his fingers along the side of the odd shape, Bilbo felt the engraved pattern of interconnected ovals that dwarves called knotwork. Ori could tell him the symbolism of this particular pattern, no doubt, but Ori was not here. The metal was about three fingers wide where the knotwork was, and curved. The inside of the curve was smooth and warm. Oh. 

Of course a crown would be warm, worn against the skin as it was. 

How like Thorin to answer a question asked a week ago as though their conversation were never interrupted! Even so, Bilbo took his time examining the crown. His curiosity about it had been genuine, and not entirely based around the usual late night speculation about Thorin’s personal appeal. 

The hobbit felt along the crown to the place where it grew much larger in his fingers. He had to place one steadying hand on the smooth interior so that he could trace the outline with his other. There were two blunt points, decorated with more of the knotwork, going up. Between them, going down, was a series of three square plates that curved around to cradle the back of the head. It would help keep the crown in place, and perhaps protect the wearer from a certain amount of backstabbing. 

The front of the crown was very different. Lines in the metal seemed to flow away from the center, perfectly symmetrical, and just right for his four fingers to trace. They curved down on either side to outline the face, but also up, spreading like a fan. There was something interesting about the points that met, but not quite. Puzzling it out took a moment.

“A beak!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Oh, perhaps it is not one. I do not think birds are particularly dwarvish, and I mean no insult, but it reminds me very much of two birds facing one another.” 

“As it should,” Thorin said warmly. “Some call it the Raven Crown. The ravens of Erebor have ever been our allies, and they are a symbol of this mountain. One I wear proudly, as did my grandfather before me.” 

“It is beautiful.” Bilbo felt justified in the pronouncement, and more grateful than he could express for the chance to study it properly and draw his own conclusions. 

“Here.” Once again, gentle hands took hold of Bilbo’s wrists. With the crown cradled carefully between his palms, Bilbo lifted it high, guided by Thorin, to place it gently on the king’s head. Bilbo could feel soft hair beneath it, and it was an exercise in self control not to run his fingers through the long, luxurious strands. Before he could snatch his hands away, however, Thorin guided him once more, back to the raven's beak. 

“It sits on my brow just so,” the dwarf said simply. “Above my eyes, centered over my nose, here.” 

With that sort of permission, Bilbo didn’t want to restrain himself any longer. He traced along the edges of the crown, and smoothed his fingers over Thorin’s eyebrows, feeling the way it framed the dwarf’s face. Then the burglar took advantage of the situation, running his fingers through the silken hair that contrasted those strong features, and his hand along the soft bristles of Thorin’s beard. As Bilbo reached the dignified angle of the king’s jaw, the face beneath his hand moved slowly, a kiss pressing against his palm. 

“Thorin.” Barely daring to breathe, Bilbo cradled the king’s cheeks in his hands, moving closer. So close, but he couldn’t bridge that final gap. 

Thorin did it for him, brushing their lips together very sweetly, just for a second. Sighing, Bilbo angled his own chin up a little more, offering a second kiss. The third lasted longer. During their fourth kiss, Thorin’s mouth opened, and Bilbo was allowed to taste the dwarf, thoroughly and properly. After that, he stopped counting. 

There was nothing proper about the way he climbed into the king’s lap, but Thorin didn’t seem to mind.


	14. Coming Home

Thorin woke in the quiet dark of a warm, soft bed. To his left, just on the edge of hearing, a clock ticked away the minutes. To his right, a warm fire crackled in the grate, casting a low orange light about the room. On his chest, short, soft hair showed just the beginning of a curl, and a warm cheek tickled a little as it began to move. 

“I can hear you waking up,” Bilbo said softly. “Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” Thorin said. His hand came up of its own accord to cover Bilbo’s bare shoulder and hold the hobbit in place. 

Bilbo hummed quietly, pleased, and Thorin felt the world fall into place. This was right. This was where he was meant to be. For a few minutes, they simply lay together, breathing. Then Bilbo rolled away, and Thorin was forced to let his hand slide down to the bed. Fortunately, in so doing he was able to keep it gently—almost accidentally—against the small of Bilbo’s back, just above the perfect swell of his bottom. If it drifted down a little further, perhaps Bilbo would—

Bilbo reached out an inquisitive hand. Thorin would have welcomed this, but instead of reaching for his lover, the hobbit was reaching for his nightstand. Feeling around for the button at the base of the clock, he soon found it. Then the low, brassy bell tolled seven times, before a higher, silvery bell chimed once. 

“Only a quarter after seven,” Thorin said. “Surely you have no appointments this early in the day.” 

“A standing appointment, in fact,” Bilbo said, turning to grin just to the left of Thorin’s face. “Come along, let’s have a little breakfast. You may wear my housecoat again, if you do not care to dress just yet.” 

A small hand fell to Thorin’s elbow, then slid up his bicep promisingly. When it found the back of Thorin’s neck, Bilbo’s smile drew close. Chaste kisses were sweet, but they were not enough after so long without. Drawing him back onto the bed, Thorin wound the hobbit in his arms, taking the time to taste the morning in his mouth. Some few minutes passed before Bilbo pulled away again, but he did pull away. 

“Good morning to you, too,” Bilbo said, stumbling toward the wardrobe. “Right. Breakfast.”

Opening the wardrobe, the hobbit appeared to collect himself. His back straightened, and his shoulders squared, which wonderfully emphasized the curve of his waist as he twisted slightly to reach inside. Regretfully, Thorin watched the samite nightshirt, with its woven dragon of purest gold, slip down to cover the far more beautiful planes of Bilbo’s skin. That nightshirt filled Thorin’s dreams on occasion, being one of the first Dori crafted for Bilbo in his sickroom, but Thorin would have given much to place it back in the wardrobe. 

Bilbo’s short curls did not need much attention, but he took the jade comb from his vanity and ran it through his hair a few times. 

“Do you prefer the jade to the mithril?” Thorin asked. 

“Excuse me?” Bilbo turned once again to look in Thorin’s direction. 

Rising from the bed, Thorin went to him, taking the comb from his hand. Running it through Bilbo’s hair was a joy, and the king imagined a day soon to come when the hero’s recovery was so complete that Thorin could give him a braid. “That is your jade comb,” he said. Taking the mithril one from its place in the vanity, Thorin stroked Bilbo’s head a few more times. “And that was the other.” 

“Oh.” Bilbo leaned back against Thorin’s chest. In the mirror above the vanity, Thorin could see how well they fit together. Bilbo belonged just there, resting his head against the muscle of Thorin’s shoulder. “Yes, I suppose I do like the first one a bit more than the metal one. I hope that doesn’t offend. I know mithril is very valuable. But the jade feels, I don’t know, soft. If that is not a strange thing to say about stone. Smooth under my hand. Right for hair.” 

Smiling, Thorin dropped a kiss to the top of Bilbo’s head, watching himself in the mirror as he did so, fixing the image in his mind to hold forever within his heart. No matter what happened next, here, now, in this one moment, he knew what it was to be happy. 

“Many favor jade combs, for exactly the reasons you describe. Thank you for telling me. After all, I have promised to shower you with gifts. I must know what you enjoy to do it correctly.” 

Pulling away, Bilbo slapped Thorin’s chest lightly and laughed. “You are an incorrigible flirt, Thorin Oakenshield. Put something on. I refuse to have a naked dwarf at my breakfast table.” 

Releasing the hobbit with no little regret, Thorin began collecting his clothing from various places about the room. As tempting as it might be to wear Bilbo’s housecoat again, to wrap himself in Bilbo’s things and ensconce himself firmly in Bilbo’s life, the hobbit seemed to prefer modesty. Dressing in a housecoat so tight about his shoulders that it bared his chest nearly to his belly likely did not meet that standard. 

By the time Thorin found his left boot—beneath the loveseat in the parlor—he could smell bacon. In fact, Bilbo had two plates set up on the kitchen counter. Thick bacon, fried eggs, buttered toast, and sweet jam were spread in a meal fit for any king. 

“I hope you don’t mind if we are a little informal.” 

The pink flush in Bilbo’s cheeks gave Thorin pause. “I do not mind,” the king said carefully. “Believe, amrâlimê, that this looks perfect to my eye. All the more because you crafted it for us to share. Yet I also do not understand. What formality do you believe we are neglecting? What formality should stand between us now?” 

“Well,” Bilbo hesitated. “Eating in the kitchen. I do not know how these things are done among dwarves, but you are a guest. Perhaps we ought to eat in the dining room.” 

Thorin tried to be as noisy as possible about pulling out his stool and sitting down. From the hobbit’s little smile, he succeeded in getting his point across. “I will sit in the kitchen,” he said for added emphasis, “if you do not mind.” 

Bilbo sat down as well, though Thorin noticed the faint blush still tinged his cheeks. “No,” Bilbo agreed. “I do not mind, either.” 

Because Bilbo was at his best after a good meal, Thorin ate quietly, offering only a few compliments regarding the quality of the bread. Bilbo made polite noises in return, but he was primarily focused on his food. For the work of the moment, it was a very fine breakfast. The jam in particular was a sweet treat, but Bilbo dismissed that compliment as insincere. Apparently, his own would be much better, when he had fruit to make it. Since such a craft could not occur until midsummer at least, the promise of it was as good as an oath. So Thorin had to put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, tracing the pulse in his elegant neck with a thumb. 

“Thorin.” Bilbo hesitated. The flush on his cheeks indicated discomfort, so Thorin stopped stroking his neck. Such a thing might be inappropriate for a hobbit’s breakfast table. In his defense, they were mostly finished with the food. “I was hoping we might spend the day together?”

That such a request could be a question was ridiculous. “I was hoping we might spend the rest of our lives together,” Thorin said plainly. 

Bilbo’s fork clattered noisily against his plate, and the hobbit stared sightlessly over Thorin’s left shoulder for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. Then he laughed. “Well, that is certainly on the table, as it were.” He grinned, looking mischievous and winsome. “But perhaps we can start with the day?”

Thorin coughed, feeling a little foolish. “The distinction is an important one,” he argued gently. “If you do not intend to keep me, my time is yours for as long as you will have me. However, if today is not all that I will have of you, I should start as I mean to go on. Most of my work may go to others, or be handled later, but only I can meet with the Stiffbeard ambassador at three o’clock today. Matters are yet complicated between our clans. For they have brought goods as few others save the Iron Hills, yet—”

With a gentle hand on Thorin’s shoulder, Bilbo silenced the king. “Of course you must keep your appointment. We will spend the morning together, and then have dinner afterward.” The hobbit grinned again. “And after dinner, we shall see.”

Feeling his own smile grow broad enough to match Bilbo’s, Thorin readily agreed to the plan. 

“First, of course, I must bathe and dress,” Bilbo said, allowing the king to clear away the dishes, since he’d been the one to cook. 

“Naturally,” Thorin agreed. 

“Care to join me?” Bilbo’s face was a picture of innocence. “That tub is so sinfully big, I feel as though I’m wasting good, hot water if I use it alone. Also, I should like to change the bandage on your arm.” 

Although Thorin did not believe for a second in this reasoning, he agreed with alacrity. 

As it turned out, Bilbo’s idea of what to do with their time deviated from Thorin’s only after second breakfast, at which point he wanted to go out, instead of back to bed again. When Thorin heard what he wanted to do, however, the dwarf was sincerely flattered, and far from displeased. All he asked was a brief stop in the chambers where he slept without Bilbo to retrieve Orcrist, since they would be leaving the absolute safety of the High Hall. 

“You worry too much,” Bilbo said, pressing a kiss to his beard, but he acquiesced. So Thorin was allowed to protect his little hero once more. The thrill of that was almost more than he could bear. 

The Cavern of Echoes was not beautiful to the eye. Gray stone formed natural pillars between gray ceiling and gray floor. Since there would be little point to lighting the place, the center was largely an expanse of darkness. Occasionally, some musician proposed to give a concert there, but no place within the chamber existed that did not also echo. So there was no place for an audience to sit. Audiences must be small indeed for the noise of their coughing, shuffling, and boot tapping not to interfere with the music. A single hobbit listener was absolutely perfect. 

“What shall I play for you?” Thorin asked his hobbit. 

“A love song,” Bilbo requested immediately. “Something about falling in love with a dwarven king, if you please.” 

Thorin hesitated. “Loving a king is not always a simple matter.” 

“The best stories never are.” 

“There is one that comes to mind. One of Durin’s wives. As you know, Durin has been born and reborn many times when his people need him. He alone among the dwarves has loved more than once, for he has married in several of those lifetimes.” 

Bilbo’s head tilted to the side. “Well,” he said slowly. “That sounds very interesting.”

“It has never been translated into Westron before,” Thorin said. “We do not speak of our queens to outsiders. But the melody will echo well, and I hope you will forgive my poor effort.” 

“I shall have to hear it, first.” But Bilbo’s smile was playful, and he looked pleased. There was little the curious fellow liked more than being trusted with a secret, as Thorin well knew. 

So the king sang.

_Fris, the fair! Fris, the Fair!_  
The golden sunlight in her hair!  
She danced on mountains capped with snow  
And delved in caverns far below.  
She looked into the darkest night   
Within her hands she held the light. 

_Durin saw her dancing feet_  
And gave her slippers, soft and fleet.  
He loved the golden light she caught,  
So hung it high in all his halls.   
When she looked into his eyes  
She saw the mithril all must prize. 

_Will she be born again?_  
Will he find her ere the end?  
But they loved each other then.  
Yes, they married when 

_The mountains rose to greet the sun_  
From ancient stone their vow was spun.  
Dwarven lords from far and near  
Came to dance the wedding reel.  
Yet instead of joy this was a bar  
For also then came Agalar. 

_Agalar from eastern dark_  
To Agalar the Stiffbeards hark  
A dwarven lord of yellow hair  
Agalar, ill may he fare.   
His craft was war, his steps were doom  
Twas he who put Fris in her tomb. 

_Fris took her husband off to dance._  
Lust was writ in Agalar’s glance.  
He said “Your golden hair is like to mine  
I would take you as I find  
A queen of all the eastern hill  
Immortality ‘s a bitter pill.” 

_Fris laughed and danced beneath the sun_  
Agalar was left to wroth and ruin  
But shrewd Stiffbeard left a parting gift  
Feigning the affectionate  
He told her he would always love  
But spite was all his heart could give. 

_A mirror tall, a mirror bright,_  
Of Durin’s eyes she thought the sight.  
Yet not her husband did she see  
Nor loving fate was theirs to be  
For in the mirror Agalar’s eyes  
From the mirror Agalar’s lies. 

_Will she be born again?_  
Will he find her ere the end?  
But they loved each other then.  
Fris always chose Durin. 

_Agalar, how did he know_  
The strength of Durin’s force in snows  
So deep and cold that none could run?  
How did that evil ambush come?  
Why was it then that Fris was killed?   
Durin alone the battle spared. 

_She will not be born again,_  
But he may find her ere the end.  
Within the stone where all will lie  
Beside Mahal when all must die. 

_We will not be born again._  
That is for Durin.   
Yet pity him now whose love went away,  
No peace for him, ere the world’s last day. 

As the last echoes of melody faded from the corners of the cavern, Bilbo sighed. Sliding into Thorin’s arms, he drew the king down into a deep kiss.

“You really do make the place sing like no one else,” the hobbit said breathlessly. 

“Ah, well, I came here often in my youth,” Thorin said. “Enamored by the sound of my own voice, no doubt. It is only a matter of practice.” 

“No doubt.” Bilbo laughed. “Modesty from the great Thorin Oakenshield. I should never have thought it.” 

Thorin’s heart was so full it might break at any moment. In truth, his singing was nothing special at all. He had neither the time nor the talent to master the craft of music-making. Yet that fact made Bilbo’s appreciation all the more pleasing. For the partiality was not in the hobbit’s ear or sense of aesthetics; it must lie in his heart. 

“Will you marry me?” he asked again. “You shall be my equal in all things, and rule this mountain by my side. We would never more be parted in this life, at least.” 

Bilbo touched the side of Thorin’s face with a gentle hand. Before he could answer, heavy footsteps echoed through the cavern. The hobbit turned away from Thorin to face Kili. 

“Good afternoon, Bilbo!” The prince was too cheerful about interrupting them. There was something troubled in his face. “Uncle, I am sorry to intrude, but I thought you should know right away. Gandalf is back.” 

Gandalf was back. Thorin’s arms wrapped around the hobbit reflexively, holding him tight. Already the snows began to melt. Spring was nigh. 

“Gandalf is back,” Bilbo said thoughtfully. “To see me home, no doubt. Among his other errands.” 

Thorin wanted to argue, to fight, to beg for more time. If only he could breathe, he would do so at once. 

“That is very well timed of him,” the hobbit continued. “I suppose a wizard has his little tricks. Should he marry us, do you think? When I was a little lad, it was considered lucky to have him officiate. Mostly because he’d do fireworks for the wedding, of course. He’s very good at them. Though I suppose a dwarven wedding is all inside the mountain, and such a display might be unsafe.” 

Thorin’s arms tightened around the hobbit. “You said.” He stopped, took a deep breath. “You said he should take you home?” 

“Oh, Thorin.” Bilbo grinned up at him. “Where do you think my home should be, if not beside you?” 

Only one answer was possible. Bending down, Thorin kissed his hobbit. 

“You’re getting married?!” Kili’s voice echoed through the cavern like the cheer of a thousand dwarves.


	15. In a Mirror, Backwards

Marrying Thorin Oakenshield was absolutely the right thing to do. Bilbo had no doubts or regrets on that score. Waking up surrounded by the furnace of dwarven strength, drifting off to the soft serenade of his deep baritone, and arguing over the correct amount of jewelry a person should wear on any given occasion were all things the hobbit wanted to do every day for the rest of his life. Parting from Thorin for any significant length of time would be wasteful, and would likely make Bilbo completely miserable. 

Marrying the King Under the Mountain, however, was a slightly different story. What did a Baggins know of royalty or ruling? Thorin was very clear that if Bilbo spent the rest of his life gardening and baking bread, he had already done enough for the dwarven people to be considered one of the finest rulers in the history of Erebor. Unfortunately, it was also very clear that Thorin hoped Bilbo would do more. Reminding Bilbo frequently about his valuable advice over the course of the quest and during the early days of reconstruction was about as subtle as an engraved proclamation. 

Worse, Bilbo wanted to be a helpmeet. To shoulder Thorin’s burdens in equal measure was the duty of a husband. Yet there were so many unknowns entangled in those burdens, and the knot of Thorin’s emotions could be a messy one. 

While Thorin agreed—and was even enthusiastic—that Gandalf should marry them, he was not at all interested in a firework display. Dead set against it might be more accurate. When Bilbo realized that it was because a blind hobbit would not be able to enjoy such a display, the couple had quite a row. Certain things were said. Rather cruel things that Bilbo had cause to regret. In truth, Thorin hadn’t been the one to say any of them. And the king forgave everything the moment Bilbo asked, although he was still against moving the party outside of the mountain for a firework display. Given the chill of early spring in Erebor, Bilbo conceded the point. 

Apart from that one, Thorin was willing to make a great many concessions for Bilbo, from living in a hobbit hole to waiting as Bilbo grew some proper flowers in his garden for a wedding crown. Just a few pansies. One couldn’t have a wedding without any flowers at all, and homegrown was indisputably the best. Honestly, Bilbo was cheating a little by having them in pots that could be moved inside if snow fell again, but he was as set on a March wedding as Thorin. Waiting to wed felt like wasting time.

Since he was set on being Thorin’s husband, he might as well get used to being married to a king. 

Dressed in the mithril armor, with Sting buckled to his belt, a sapphire ring on his finger, and his finest walking stick in hand, Bilbo almost felt ready to face the responsibility. For luck, he put the jade comb in his pocket. Running his fingers over the smooth curves was comforting, a reminder that he and Thorin shared a domestic life quite apart from a public one. A reminder that he might need in the vast throne room. 

Thorin always invited Bilbo to sit beside him while he held court, and Bilbo always declined. Surprising Thorin by arriving early seemed like the best way to break that cycle. Because if Bilbo lost his nerve and decided not to stay, no one else need know about the plan. 

Sneaking into the throne room was almost too easy. Bilbo wondered if reassigning so many guards to stop petty theft in the marketplace was a mistake. Perhaps it was hypocritical, but he worried about Thorin going around unguarded. Especially since Balin advised so strongly against it. 

Bilbo felt the solid stone of Thorin’s throne beneath his fingers. His own beside it was very similar, but it had a plush velvet cushion and smooth, polished arm rests. Apparently, the two thrones looked nearly identical, but Bilbo’s was comfortable for a hobbit. The thought made him smile, but he sat down. Perhaps that would be best, to be already sitting in his throne when Thorin arrived. Bilbo wished he could see the look on his beloved’s face. He would be so surprised! 

Of course, even though Bilbo was ready to begin he was still very early. As time went on, he began to feel less prepared. There was another difference between the thrones, aside from Bilbo’s cushion and the fact that Thorin was born to his. Thorin’s had the Arkenstone set in the back, to shine out above his head. The hobbit wondered what it looked like. According to rumor, it was quite sparkly. Curious, Bilbo climbed onto the seat of Thorin’s throne. The king wouldn’t object. Anyway, he wasn’t here yet.Tracing the intricate carvings with his hands, Bilbo found the setting for the big jewel. It felt like any other smooth gem, though admittedly it was quite large. Wondering if seeing it would make it more impressive, Bilbo almost didn’t hear the approaching boot steps. 

Startled, the hobbit leapt down off Thorin’s seat of power and ducked behind the throne to hide. It was an absolutely ridiculous reaction, and he knew it. Unfortunately, now that he could hear dwarves approaching the thrones, Bilbo would be mortified by coming out no matter how long he hid. Moreover, he could tell they were only guards or something, for he did not recognize either one as a friend. Embarrassing himself in front of people he was supposed to order about was not a good way to start his first day at court.

“Quickly now,” one of the dwarves said. He had a deep, gruff voice, and a slapping sound echoed roughly after he spoke. 

“Aye, aye,” the other said. “Y’ dinna have t’ hit me, Tuklas.”

There was a scraping, then the noise of boot against stone. Bilbo realized with some shock that one of the dwarves was standing upon the very throne he was hiding behind. Clearly, this was not the behavior of a guard. Nor was it the behavior of anyone who belonged in the throne room, or Bilbo wouldn’t have been so embarrassed about doing it himself. 

“Hurry up,” Tuklas said urgently.

“I am,” whined his compatriot. “I can’t just knock the Arkenstone out with a pry bar, you know. But there’s a secret catch here, I’m sure of it.” 

“Should have hit the treasure room directly. What was the point of you robbing the Dragonslayer himself if they didn’t decrease the number of guards on the treasure?” 

“I told you they wouldn’t.” The dwarf on the throne grunted, then made a satisfied sound. For a moment, there was absolute silence. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? Almost worth the curse that’s sure to fall on us for taking it.”

“Idiot!” There was another slapping sound. “We’re only borrowing it really. Oakenshield will pay the ransom for it, and then—”

“And then he’ll have our heads.” 

“Then we’ll die in the service of our clan,” Tuklas said mercilessly. “Put it away and lets go.” 

Straining to listen, Bilbo heard something solid dropping into a cloth bag, and then that back landing on the stone throne for a moment as the thief lept down. Quick as he could, he threw his sapphire ring across the room. It bounced and clattered like a bell. 

“What was that?” The rough Tuklas sounded frightened for the first time, but Bilbo didn’t hesitate. 

Swiftly and silently, the hobbit reached into the bag and swapped out whatever was inside it for the jade comb from his pocket. Then he hid back behind the throne. If they found him, he would run and scream for help. He had Sting, but he had no illusions about his ability to hold off dwarves, even if he could see them. 

Fortunately, the two thieves scampered off without another word, leaving Bilbo alone to cower and listen to the sound of his own racing heart. 

So lost in his own fear, Bilbo did not hear the tramp of approaching dwarven boots until Balin shouted, “The Arkenstone!” 

“Don’t worry,” he said, coming out from behind the throne. “Don’t worry. I think I have it here.” Bilbo held out the thing he’d been clutching to his chest, tremendously relieved when Balin sighed and Thorin laughed. 

“Ghivâshel,” the king said, “All that is mine is yours. But if you care to toy with that particular jewel, I beg you tell us first. Balin’s heart nearly gave out in shock to see it missing.” 

“It did not,” the old dwarf grumbled, but his voice was full of relieved laughter. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said urgently. “There were two dwarves here. I cannot describe them, but one is named Tuklas and they only left a few minutes ago. Hopefully, you can still catch them. My jade comb is in their bag, so you may know them by that. I do not think they mean you any good, and I do not think they are working alone.” 

“Go now,” Thorin bellowed. “Find them! Stop every dwarf in the Mountain, but find them.” 

At once, more boots tramped away, and Bilbo was enfolded in a tight embrace. Thorin was covered in jewels and ceremonial armor, of course, but his hair was soft and his arms were warm. Finally, the hobbit’s heart slowed to a normal pace. 

Although he would never complain about such activities, Bilbo had to ask. “You will not go after them? They tried to take the Arkenstone.” 

“The least of their crimes.” Thorin’s voice was a low rumble, like the distant thunder of an April shower. “You were alone in a room with those who intend me harm. Anything might have happened.” 

“Yes, well.” Bilbo patted his back comfortingly. “I had Sting, you know. And I am wearing this lovely armor you gave me. I can take care of myself.” 

Lips pressed against Bilbo’s forehead, then his cheek. Turning, Bilbo caught Thorin in a kiss that quickly became inappropriate for such a public place. Stepping back, the hobbit did his best to come up with something to say that was not, “Shall we go to bed at one o’clock in the afternoon today?”

“I had to throw that sapphire ring you gave me,” he recalled gratefully. “It is somewhere in that direction. Would you please fetch it for me?” The obvious brilliance of a topic that would force Thorin to step away and stop stroking the tip of Bilbo’s ear was somewhat undermined when Thorin laughed. 

“You threw your ring?” the king asked, something playful in his voice. His steps receded obediently to a corner of the room as they spoke, so he was doing as Bilbo asked.

“I did,” Bilbo said slowly. “I had to be sure the thieves were looking away as I swapped the Arkenstone for my comb.” 

“Indeed.” Thorin’s voice and steps both returned to Bilbo. His hand took hold of the hobbit’s gently, and a jeweled ring was returned to its place on Bilbo’s thumb. “Yet I wonder: is it only rings, or will anything valuable do in a pinch?” 

“Excuse me?”

Thorin lifted Bilbo’s hand, kissing his palm sweetly. “Now that I know all of your most brilliant plans involve throwing jewelry away, I must keep you well supplied.” 

Shoving the laughing dwarf away, Bilbo sat down on his cushioned throne in a huff. “Is this the thanks I get?” he crossed his arms over his chest so that Thorin could not pepper him with more kisses. “After I protect an heirloom that you’re so particularly fond of, I get critiqued on the originality of my plan?” 

Clearly, Thorin was about to make some reply when the tramping boots came back.

“My king,” Balin announced proudly, “We have here a dwarf named Tuklas, and another, Lud, who had in his possession a jade comb.” 

“Show me,” Thorin ordered. There was no laughter left in his voice, only deadly gravity. 

Bilbo could not see the comb, but he heard Thorin’s slow intake of breath. 

“That is, indeed, the comb I gave to my beloved,” the king said. Around the outer edge of the room, more boots clattered in. Rumors spread quickly among dwarves, and all wanted to see justice for the attempted theft of the Arkenstone. 

“And you must know that I forgive you for taking it, Lud,” Bilbo said. 

There was a sharp gasp from more than one person. 

“Amrâlimê,” Thorin said quietly, sounding pained. “Perhaps you do not understand the connotations of such words, when you sit in that particular place.” 

Bilbo smiled, reaching out to pat his hand. “I forgive you, Lud,” he said again, loudly enough to carry over the murmurs that filled the throne room. “I forgive you for taking my purse in the Marketplace, too. You’re a good sort. You would never normally rob a blind fellow.”

“No, no,” Lud said quickly. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“That’s right,” Bilbo said. “You were acting under orders.”

“Say another word and I gut you,” Tuklas growled. 

“Gag him,” Bilbo ordered, hoping the hand he waved was in the appropriate direction. Judging by the sudden muffling of the growling, the order was obeyed. Bilbo trusted that Thorin, at least, understood what he was trying to do. Thorin always understood Bilbo’s plans. “Now, Lud.” 

Lud only made an undignified sort of squeak. 

“Oh come,” Bilbo said, in as friendly a manner as possible. “Surely you can’t be more afraid of that Tuklas fellow than you are of Thorin Oakenshield? After all, you did cut my purse from my belt in a public place. Which means you must have had a very sharp knife very close to my person. As I said, I forgive you for that. I know you were only acting under orders. But Thorin has very strong feelings about such things.”

Bilbo could only imagine what Thorin’s face was doing. He did, after all, have extremely strong feelings about people with knives in proximity to Bilbo. Lud didn’t have to imagine. 

“Under orders,” the thief yelped. “I was only acting under orders.” 

“Of course you were,” Bilbo said soothingly. “It wasn’t your fault. Just tell me, Lud: who ordered you to steal the Arkenstone?”

“Vork! Lord Vork!” 

“The Stiffbeard ambassador?” The note of disbelief in Thorin’s voice was mild enough to be leading, as well as threatening. He definitely understood Bilbo’s intentions. 

“Aye,” Lud said quickly. “We was ordered to get the Mirror of Agalar from your treasury at all costs. The three of us. Lord Vork is the one who thought targeting the Dragonslayer would make you pull guards from the treasury. I only did it because he ordered me to. And I never wanted to take the Arkenstone. Only old Vork said we could use it to ransom the Mirror. Please, Lord Dragonslayer, mercy! Pardon my foolishness!”

“The Mirror of Agalar,” Thorin said slowly. “It is true that Vork has been angling for a mirror from the treasure hoard since practically the first, but he did not give it that name. Why would he—?”

Gandalf’s boots were much quieter than a dwarf’s, but Bilbo heard the rap of his staff against stone as the wizard stepped forward and bowed. 

“Speak, Gandalf, if you have some wisdom to add,” Thorin said. It was rather informal of him, Bilbo thought, since Gandalf was clearly trying to observe the custom of Thorin’s court by waiting for permission. 

“They must have the diadem.” 

While that did not help Bilbo much at all, it seemed to be exactly what Thorin needed to draw some conclusion. The king’s voice sounded murderous when he said, “The Diadem of Agalar. They have it. And the Mirror of Fris was in the hoard the whole time.” 

“Wait,” Bilbo said. “Fris? Durin’s wife? From that story you told me about the battle and everything?” 

“Precisely.” 

“But that was all so long ago,” Bilbo said. “What would it matter now if your ancestor and some ancestral Stiffbeard were both in love with the same dam?” 

“I assure you, old friend,” Gandalf said, “the Mirror of Fris is quite real. Agalar used it to spy on Lady Fris in her private chambers, and in so doing discovered many secrets which he used to make war on Durin’s folk. If the royal family of the Stiffbeards had the Diadem of Agalar still in their possession, they would have been able to see into the hoard at any time.” 

“They knew.” Thorin fumed. “Unlike the other clans, the Stiffbeards did not back our quest because they knew there was no chance of easy success. They knew that Smaug only slept. Bilbo. I sent you into the hoard to face a live dragon, but part of me believed he might already be dead. If I knew for a fact it was not so, I would never have—” 

“Then it’s a good thing you didn’t know,” Bilbo said quickly. “As we’ve discussed before, what happened between me and Smaug was tremendously lucky. If matters had been otherwise, all of us would be dead and the mountain still the domain of that wicked old beast.”

“Well said.” The dwarf who spoke had a mild tone, one that reminded the hobbit more of Balin than any of his other friends. 

“I did not recognize you, Vork,” Thorin said dangerously. 

A murmur of disapproval accompanied a few sounds Bilbo didn’t understand. The hobbit hoped that Vork was not learning dwarven propriety in a crude way, and that only his overactive imagination supplied such a terrible idea. 

“Found him saddling a goat near the gates,” Dwalin grunted. “No doubt word of the capture of his friends reached him.” 

“No doubt.” Thorin’s voice was full of winter ice. Bilbo didn’t know how to remind him that it was spring.

In the darkness, Bilbo felt so separated from his friends, enclosed in the smooth, stony arms of his throne like an ancient king entombed by rock. Although the room was full of dwarves, Bilbo was quite alone. 

Distantly, Vork was speaking. “I alone among my clan knew the diadem still worked, and that the mirror was unbroken in the treasure hoard of Thror. I alone decided to steal the Arkenstone to ransom it. Tuklas and Lud have no connection to the leaders of my people beyond what I provide.” 

“Will you give the diadem to Erebor now, as weregild for your crime?” Gandalf asked. 

Thorin snorted. “As if such a paltry relic could compensate for the attempted theft of the Arkenstone. Now it is known that the Stiffbeards have been plotting against me since before I assumed this throne. There is no weregild I would accept for such criminal behavior.” 

“Funny.” Gandalf’s voice seemed more cheerful than it ought to be, while Thorin threatened an ambassador with war and death. “Not a season ago, I thought you might abandon your throne entirely in search of such a relic.” 

“Thorin would never abandon his throne,” Bilbo said, finding the words at last. Words that might thaw Thorin’s heart without contradicting him in public. Reaching out, Bilbo took the hand of his husband-to-be and said, “You are a great king, Thorin Oakenshield.” Thorin would remember that in Bilbo’s opinion, great kings made peace, not war. 

Indeed, Thorin’s hand grasped Bilbo’s firmly. Bilbo felt the dwarf turn bodily away from the sneaky ambassador and the twisted politics which made hiding a mistake preferable to apologizing.

“And you, amrâlimê, are overtired. Grateful as I am for your support through this trial, I would not have had your first day sitting court with me be so eventful. Vork, I will accept the conceit that you alone are responsible for the attempted theft of the Arkenstone, and that the Stiffbeards as a whole would never sanction such an action. If the diadem is presented to me today, I will call it the beginnings of your weregild. Beware! Should the diadem be in the keeping of another, that would disprove your declaration of autonomy.” 

“It is in my keeping,” Vork said. “Here. I give it freely, along with my deepest regrets for the actions I have undertaken, which in no way represent the wishes of my people.” 

“Regrets that the Longbeards were not all killed by the dragon, no doubt,” Dwalin grumbled. 

“Let the thieves be displayed in the Grand Marketplace for three days,” Thorin declared. “That their victims may seek what retribution they will, barring any lasting harm. Then, return the ambassador to his people. Despite his failing of their trust, his person is inviolate. Moreover, we must acknowledge that whatever their reasons, the Stiffbeards alone among the clans have sent supplies to us all winter in exchange for gold. The support of the Iron Hills and Mirkwood would not have kept us as well through this lean time of rebuilding without their aid. Aid which they could not well afford. For indeed, the first scheme Vork tried was to buy the mirror from me, but even emptying their treasury, the Stiffbeards could not afford so much mithril. Life in the East has ever been barren and difficult. Lo, it is often so for the dwarven people. But I say no more! Going forward, I will meet what I am given. Faith with trust; honesty with truth; goods with gold.” 

When Vork spoke, Bilbo could hear tears of gratitude in his voice. The hobbit suspected that the stoic ambassador would have felt the same if Thorin ordered his death, so long as Erebor did not declare war on their dwarven neighbors to the east. “Your majesty’s mercy is beyond what we deserve. Thank you, King Under the Mountain.” 

So that was all right, then. 

After considerably more speech making, most of which Bilbo tuned out, court was adjourned. Thorin did not let go of the hobbit’s hand once during any of it. When the time finally came to rise from their thrones, the king merely traded hand for arm, and escorted Bilbo gallantly off to a small, private study. 

“I have not yet thanked you,” Thorin said quietly. “For condescending to sit in court.” 

Bilbo laughed. “Condescending? Thorin! All of that with ambassadors and international trade was far too big for a little fellow like me. Why, we might have just avoided a war!” 

“For which I am deeply grateful.” Thorin’s mouth was close to Bilbo’s ear, as if imparting a secret. “Erebor could ill afford a war, especially with kinfolk who should be allies. Yet if those thieves dared to harm you—”

“They didn’t.” Burying his hand in Thorin’s hair, Bilbo pulled the king down for a kiss. After a long minute of enjoying the taste of his husband-to-be, the hobbit remembered to ask, “Are we alone in this room?”

“As it happens, you aren’t,” Balin said cheerfully. 

Leaping away from Thorin, Bilbo tried to appear nonchalant instead of positively mortified. 

“I am here as well,” Gandalf said. 

“And I,” Dwalin added. 

Crossing his arms over his chest, the hobbit wished desperately that he could make a show of inspecting something in the room. At least he couldn’t see the faces of his teasing friends, either. 

“Well.” Bilbo coughed. “To my original point. While I’m happy to help with thieves and the like, I shall be leaving the grander bits of ruling to you, I think. Hobbits are not at all equipped to deal with wars and such.” 

“Then my kingdom will have to be one that does not go to war,” Thorin said, in one of those simple, dignified pronouncements that made Bilbo want to kiss him.

Since they were surrounded by their friends, the hobbit restrained himself. Barely. 

“May you never be tested,” Gandalf said. “May peace and prosperity be Erebor’s for all the days of your life.” 

“Not to worry,” Dwalin said. “Now that he’s up and about again, the burglar will put a stop to anything dangerous before it starts.” 

Pleased and embarrassed, Bilbo laughed. Thorin, however, seemed to take Dwalin seriously. 

“Indeed. I have a gift for you, Bilbo Baggins, to commemorate your saving of the Arkenstone, and also the first day you chose to sit by my side upon the throne of Erebor.” 

Turning to Thorin, Bilbo smiled. “I’ve told you before, I’m a hobbit. You may give me a present to commemorate it being a sunny day, and we needn’t worry over much about occasions. Besides, I am happy to sit beside you, wherever you choose to sit, Thorin. We are going to be married.” 

“Yes,” Thorin said. “We are.” With careful hands he placed something upon Bilbo’s head. 

“Oh dear,” the hobbit said. “A crown, is it? I thought I might be able to avoid one of those until after the wedding.” Recollecting himself, he added, “Thank you very much, Thorin. I’m sure it’s lovely.” 

Grunting, Thorin adjusted the band so that it rested lower on Bilbo’s forehead, across his temples and just above his ears. 

Suddenly, Bilbo swayed. Golden light filled the room. He saw. He saw. “Balin?” The cloud of the dwarf’s white hair was unmistakable, as were his twinkling eyes and friendly smile. Although his robes were the same cut as the ones he favored on the road, the fabric was much richer, inlaid with gold and detailed brocade. 

“Hello, Bilbo,” Balin said, his smile growing, and his eyes twinkling to beat the stars. But even though he looked as though he was right in front of Bilbo’s face, his voice sounded from across the room. The steadying arms around Bilbo’s shoulders belonged to Thorin, but the hobbit could not see his intended.

Stepping away from Thorin, Bilbo walked slowly in the direction of Balin’s voice. He could not stop staring. The room was decorated with carved stone, as befit a dwarven place. However, the wall next to Balin was graced by an elaborate tapestry in blue, silver, red, and brown. It was absolutely beautiful. A white ship sailing over an ocean and into a sky full of stars. Everyone knew the old myth, but the border was covered in dwarven runes, not elvish script. Bilbo wanted to study it carefully, especially since the runes were all backward. He looked at Balin once more, almost staggering toward his friend. Behind the dwarf’s smiling face, the hobbit could see himself approach. 

He appeared well enough. A little too thin. His hair was still too short. Shining armor was hardly a respectable waistcoat, but that could be ignored. Despite the changes, Bilbo looked like himself. Excepting, of course, his unfocused eyes. Closing them didn’t alter what he saw in the slightest, except of course that he saw himself with his eyes closed. Bilbo lifted his right hand to touch the rune carved diadem on his head, and saw himself do it. It was like seeing through a mirror, backward. 

So, this was the Mirror of Fris. 

Still staring into his own face, Bilbo reached for Balin’s arm. He saw his arm move, and he felt the velvet beneath his fingers. In the mirror, Balin’s hand rose, and Bilbo felt it cover his own fingers in a comforting way. Just as he saw it happening. Golden light shone on silver like a miracle, but all Bilbo wanted to see was his friend. There were tears in Balin’s eyes. 

“I dared not dream of being seen by you again,” the old dwarf cried.

“None of that,” Bilbo said. “Why, this may just be the third best present I’ve received in all my life!” 

“Third best?” Thorin came forward, looking as handsome as ever over Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo noticed that his own eyes did not move in the mirror, even as he studied the way the careworn lines of Thorin’s face smoothed away with the light of joy. Those blue eyes sparkled with humor, and the usually stoic king was smiling more broadly than Bilbo ever imagined he could. 

“Yes, well.” Leaning back, Bilbo felt Thorin behind him like a pillar of strength. He saw the king’s arms wrap around him even as he felt them do so. Dizzy and overwhelmed, the hobbit said, “My grandfather the Old Took gave me a wooden sword once for his birthday. I recall being very fond of it as a fauntling. And of course, you gave me a truly excellent kiss only just this morning.” 

Laughing, Thorin turned Bilbo around in his arms. “I shall give you another right now,” he declared. 

Watching the back of his own head as Thorin kissed him deeply was disorienting, to say the least. However, watching the hunger in Thorin’s eyes as he released Bilbo was nothing short of inspiring. 

“You should know,” Balin said carefully, “that I do not think this is a complete solution to your blindness. The Diadem of Agalar is not a pair of eyeglasses, more’s the pity.”

Dwalin grunted his objection. “Only takes two dwarves to carry the mirror. A couple of guards could see it done. And solve the question of a royal escort.” 

“No,” Bilbo agreed, and not only to preserve his autonomy. “I would not risk breaking it by carting it about the city. That shall be a nice treat for special occasions, though of course I will use it daily for dressing in the morning and suchlike.” 

With wide, fond eyes, Thorin looked down at Bilbo. “Dressing?”

“And special occasions,” Bilbo agreed. “Our wedding, for one. Oh, I do look forward to seeing you in your wedding flowers!” 

Thorin’s hand traced along the edge of the diadem and the tip of Bilbo’s ear. Seeing the flush that colored his cheeks was a treat indeed. For a moment, Bilbo was quite certain that he would be kissed again. Then, the king’s head snapped up suddenly. He looked as eager as a dwarfling when he turned to Gandalf. “Wizard! I would like to commission a display of fireworks!” 

And Bilbo Baggins laughed until he could not breathe.


End file.
